


Your Face is (Not) a Face I Would Forget

by Kaleran



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Chabouillet is probably OOC but I don't care, Cosette and Marius are there, Gym AU, Javert has prosopagnosia, Javert is too gay to function, Javert swears a lot, M/M, Prosopagnosia, Strength Kink, They both got it bad for the other it's kind of embarassing, Trans Javert, Trans Male Character, Vaginal Sex, Valjean has anxiety, Valjean's MADELEINE brand booty shorts, Valjean's terrible fashion sense, Wall Sex, back on my transvert bullshit come at me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-16
Updated: 2020-02-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:28:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 20,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22752499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaleran/pseuds/Kaleran
Summary: (But Your Ass is Another Story)Indoor gyms aren't really popular in Paris and not something Javert really thinks about when he does all his running outside, but an abnormally icy cold snap drives him to the one near his apartment. There, Javert catches sight of an absurdly perfect figure of a man. Snow-white hair that's constantly falling in front of his eyes, terribly ugly long-sleeved neon shirts showcasing a wide chest and arms that can bench 400 pounds like it's fucking nothing, and a pair of tight orange booty shorts with the word "MADELEINE" written across the most beautiful ass Javert has ever seen. He's a distraction. A terrible, terrible distraction, and Javert has no real reason to keep going to the damn gym when the weather warms up, but continue he does. There's something annoyingly familiar about this guy, something in the way he pulls his hair in front of his eyes or the way he walks, but Javert has no fucking idea where he met him before. Maybe, if his prosopagnosia wasn't screwing him over on a daily basis, he would have a better idea. But surely the guy would have said something by now if they had met before....Right?
Relationships: Javert/Jean Valjean
Comments: 14
Kudos: 104





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you Rose and Jean (aka Nonners) from [Sewerchat](https://kaleran.tumblr.com/post/151694469038/valvert-and-general-les-mis-fan-group-chat) for betaing this for me! and for Jean giving me that Actual 21st Century Trans Man Seal Of Approval, since I was anxious about it. I might be dfab and trans, but gender? in THIS century? not my jam at all my friends. Somehow it's easier to relate to 18th century gender which makes no sense but whatever, it made canon-compliant transvert easy to write lmao.

Javert is distracted. He's been distracted for weeks, ever since the first snow had come to Paris, the bitter cold and freezing winds with it. It was unusual for Paris to be so cold and for so long. The news claimed it was an effect of global climate change and Javert didn't know enough about the subject to give his opinion. Either way, he curses the cold and the ice and how all the roads froze over and became dangerous to run on and all the idiotic drivers who didn't know how to drive on snow and all the paperwork he had to do for damages.

So of course, _of course_ , now, when he has work to do and needs to be alert at all times due to the icy conditions, he's distracted. Javert has never been more distracted from his work in his life. It is an entirely new experience that he finds to be annoying at best and drives him to screaming in frustration at its worst.

He knows exactly where to place the blame for his distraction, but he can't just stop running twice a week. And thus, he turned to the gym closest to his apartment, which had begun his downfall. There is only one man who could have made him so distracted. A guy that Javert spots across the gym once, lifting weights and making his biceps flex in the most attractive manner and Javert is, all at once, gone. Maybe the man is doing it on purpose. That's honestly doubtful, but there is something else off about him that makes Javert's instincts twitch.

Either way, he annoys Javert and distracts him from his work by wearing those damn tiny shorts with 'MADELEINE' written across the ass that he looks entirely too good in. No man, especially one built as stocky as this one, could possibly look good in booty shorts, and yet Javert can't stop thinking about him. God, his ass looks so good in-- no, _no_. Those kinds of thoughts are banned. It doesn't matter how buff the guy is, or how Javert sometimes finds himself unable to look away when he benches four hundred pounds like it's fucking _nothing_ with his biceps flexing like that, or the one time Javert saw him on the rowing machine and Christ, even under a shirt his pecs are incredible and his legs-- no, stop. _Stop_. It doesn't matter. Sure, Javert can admit to himself that the guy is hot, almost godly if he were honest, but this is ridiculous. It cannot be allowed to continue.

If only it weren't so damn cold outside, then Javert could jog around Paris like he usually does. He wouldn't need to go to the gym at all and this whole thing could be avoided. If he didn't go to the gym, then he wouldn't see Madeleine (because what else was Javert supposed to call him when they had never even spoken and Javert spent half his time staring at the word on the man's ass anyway), and he would finally be able to focus on his work again.

If only it were that easy. Paris had warmed to above freezing again, the cold front moving elsewhere, yet Javert finds himself continuing to go to the gym instead of his usual jogging route around the city. He tells himself it's more practical, not having to dodge other runners and dogs and kids and pedestrians, but even he knows that they're only excuses and flimsy ones at that. It's Madeleine, because of course it is. Madeleine who seems to tick every single fucking box Javert has.

The gym itself is a little unassuming place tucked away on a side street and is always at least half full. Gyms aren't exactly popular in Paris, but he was lucky to find one so close to his apartment. Madeleine seems to be a personal trainer, or maybe just a regular who is too nice, because he's constantly helping people with the weights. He is almost always there when Javert comes in twice a week and Javert has yet to see him out of workout clothes. He looks fantastic in workout clothes. Somehow. They are all, individually, awful, but they showcase his figure perfectly so Javert can't exactly complain. It's infuriating, if Javert is honest with himself. He should not be lusting after a man who regularly wears lime green shirts and tight neon orange booty shorts together, and yet here he is doing exactly that.

Twice a week he tells himself that he will put an end to this and twice a week he fails. He curses that abnormal cold front that had caused him to seek it a gym in the first place. Then he never would have laid eyes on Madeleine at all. Wouldn't have to continually drag his eyes away from the span of his wide shoulders or the line of his powerful back. He could have been running outside, never seeing the same person for more than a minute at most, but he can't seem to force himself to stay away.

He steels himself as he walks in the gym this week. Madeleine has started waving at him when he notices Javert walking in now. _Waving_. At _him_ , Javert! He doesn't appear to be that much older than Javert himself, yet his hair is a snowy white that Javert would expect to see on a much older man. He makes himself scowl whenever Madeleine waves at him. He has no business waving at Javert like they were _friends_ or something, and he should pin his bangs back if he doesn't want it in his eyes like that. Javert might look ridiculous with his long hair that he refuses to cut tied up in a bun and his bangs pinned back with bobby pins, but it's worth it to keep the sweaty hair off of his neck. Madeleine's hair isn't nearly as long as his own, but it's still constantly outgrown and falling in his eyes.

Today, Madeleine does not catch his attention by waving at him and Javert tells himself he's grateful. Then he sees him over by the hand weights, right in front of Javert's usual treadmill, and Javert is significantly less grateful. Madeleine always wears long sleeve shirts, for some reason that Javert tells himself he does not desire to know, but even so his arms are so thick with muscle that the fabric is always pulled so tight it might as well not be there at all. Already, he can feel his resolution not to stare at him failing. Madeleine's arms are a frequent feature in Javert's fantasies, the ones he refuses to acknowledge, and having them on display right in front of him is a gift. _Curse_ , he corrects himself. It's definitely a curse.

He debates if he should choose a different treadmill today in a last ditch effort to save his future self from distraction, but his feet lead him to his usual spot against his will. Madeleine is fiddling with his phone and doesn't notice how hard Javert slams his water bottle into the holder. He starts the machine, again cursing climate change or whatever for forcing him here in the first place.

He starts off slow, some news podcast playing through his earbuds, and stares intently at the opposite wall. He will not stare at Madeleine, he orders himself. He can’t afford any more distractions. Just the other day he had almost missed some vandal because he had been thinking about how Madeleine's chest looked when his sweat soaked shirt was sticking to his skin just before he went to go change. Or that other time when he had been wondering how Madeleine's bicep might feel under his hand. His arms are glorious. Even now, when he isn’t flexing, the curves of his muscles is a beautiful line, probably even better if there was no shirt to hide any muscle definition he might have. That shirt is fucking awful anyway, like the rest of his clothes. It’s bright yellow today, some worn logo big and bold across his wide chest, the fabric tight around his arms and--

This is ridiculous. He is ridiculous. He's no longer some teenager who's prone to ogling anyone who even remotely fits his type, and yet here he is, blatantly ogling. Madeleine hasn't even picked up a single weight yet and Javert can't take his eyes off of his arms. He forces his eyes down at his feet and turns up the speed, scowling. _Ridiculous_.

He turns the volume of his podcast up in an attempt to drown out the visual of Madeleine's arms. It works to an extent, but he continually finds himself staring vacantly in his direction and has to force his eyes away again. A few times Madeleine catches him staring and they both look away at the same time. Javert tells himself he doesn't flush in embarrassment and the heat that rises to his face is exertion. There is something oddly familiar about him, the slight limp in his step and some of the movements he does with his hands, like they had met somewhere else before, but Javert can't place it. He’s always had a terrible memory for faces anyway. Surely Madeleine would have approached him by now if they were acquainted.

He starts watching the other people in the gym after they catch eyes awkwardly for the third time. There's always people to watch. He vaguely recognizes a few regulars across the room in a group by the weight machines. In the far corner, a lone girl who can hardly be older than 20 is doing yoga. She's friendly with Madeleine, and he smiles endlessly and endearingly at her, so Javert assumes they're related. He carefully never watches how she often takes his arm so easily because he refuses to be envious of someone less than half his age. Now that would be a whole new low for him.

He moves onto the next person, and then the next, until finally he's left with no one interesting to watch except Madeleine. He's doing reps now with the hand weights, his biceps flexing wonderfully with every motion. Javert loves— no— _hates_ his arms. It's completely unfair what Madeleine's arms do to him. He scowls, glaring down at the little red numbers on the treadmill. Almost five kilometers. After he hits that, he'll go home and make himself dinner for one and then do the work he brought home, resolutely shoving images of Madeleine's flexing biceps out of his mind, fail, and end up face down on his kitchen table. Again.

That sounds pathetic. It's not like he's lonely, because he isn't. He likes living alone with no one but his neighbor's loud music to bother him. It's just _Madeleine_. He is just Javert's type, except from all his observations, he isn't an asshole. He's nice and has a bowl of candy on the front counter to offer the rare child that occasionally walks through the gym doors and helps old ladies cross the street and regularly donates to charity. He drives a _hybrid_ for God's sake. He _waves at Javert_ sometimes. He's too good to be true, or at the very least, too good for Javert.

When Javert leaves, his hat pulled over his hair to keep it off his skin while it's still gross and sweaty, Madeleine waves him goodbye and Javert can't help but duck his head. He can't blame the color on his face as exertion when he's not actually running.

He spends more time with his forehead pressed on top of the reports he was supposed to be reviewing than usual that night.

The next week, Madeleine starts greeting him with his usual wave and a "hey". _"Hey"_. What does he mean by " _hey_ "? He thinks about it far more than he should, analyzing the single, short word from all angles until he thinks he's going insane. There's nothing significant about it, other than how Madeleine has no reason to even acknowledge Javert's presence. It doesn't help with his distraction. In fact, it makes it significantly worse.

There's still something naggingly familiar about him, yet Javert can't quite figure out what it is or where Javert could have possibly met him before. Surely even he could remember someone as distinctive as Madeleine. Fucking prosopagnosia. He's found ways to work around it, of course; memorizing haircuts and voices and the different ways people move, but it is still a major inconvenience in his line of work.

Still. Javert definitely would have remembered seeing that ass somewhere else. It’s a very distinctive ass. Tight, just the right size to fill Javert’s hands if he— No, these are bad thoughts. Unproductive, distracting, terrible thoughts.

He pushes open the door to the gym, scowl on his face, and Madeleine waves at him.

“Hey,” Madeleine says.

Javert replies with a wordless grunt, avoiding meeting his eyes and stalks to his usual treadmill again.

Seriously, what does he mean with all this _"hey"_ stuff? They aren’t friends. Javert isn’t looking to make friends. He doesn’t need friends, anyway. They would only be a distraction. He has his work and that’s really what’s important.

Today, Madeleine is training someone; some scrawny, college-aged twink who’s clearly never touched a weight in his life. Madeleine’s hands are nice- hideous, Javert quickly corrects, because he’s trying a new tactic even if it’s already failing. They’re wide and calloused and probably awful and rough for reasons Javert tells himself he doesn’t want to know. It’s not like Javert spends a great deal of time thinking about Madeleine’s hands anyway. They’re just hands. There’s absolutely nothing special about Madeleine’s hands and there’s no reason to feel so jealous when Javert watches those hands correct the college guy’s form.

He makes the mistake of paying attention today when Madeleine glances up and meets his eyes. As usual, Javert pretends he wasn’t looking at all and resolutely stares at the wall as if he’s entirely absorbed in the podcast playing over his earbuds, which he entirely forgot to turn on today. Damn Madeleine and his stupid “ _hey_ ” for distracting him. It feels like minutes later when Javert deems it safe enough to let his eyes slide back over to observe them, just in time for Madeleine’s hand to slide down to the college kid’s lower back to adjust his spine. If it weren’t for the mirror behind them, it would look entirely too much like Madeleine is, well, groping the kid.

Which is none of Javert’s business, he quickly reminds himself. It’s not like he wants to get groped by Madeleine. If anything, it would be Javert doing the groping. Those damn tiny MADELEINE shorts were absolutely not designed for someone who could probably break bones with his ass alone. Like the man wearing them. It’s honestly fascinating how the things have lasted so long without tearing clean down the middle with how tight they are across—

Now he’s staring at Madeleine’s ass again, damn it.

A good thing too, or maybe a bad thing all things considered, because the next moment Madeleine demonstrates how to do a squat with a barbell across his broad shoulders not fifteen feet away as if just to show off what a perfect ass he has. So perfect, in fact, that Javert manages to trip over his own damn feet at the sight of it.

The treadmill is not forgiving. He goes down instantly, face slamming against the display with a crack that is, no doubt, the sound of his nose breaking. The next thing he knows, he’s lying on the floor next to the damn thing with blood all over his face and the image of the perfect ass and the word MADELEINE burned into his memory.

“Fuck,” he swears to himself.

“Oh my God! Are you alright?”

Madeleine, of course, hovering over him with concern in his irritatingly compassionate eyes. No one else in this gym has white hair hanging loose like that with no attempt to keep it out of his face. Idiot.

“This is literally all your fault,” Javert tries to say. He ends up choking halfway through and has to be helped to a sitting position so he doesn’t drown on his own blood.

“Cosette? Can you get me some paper towels please?”

If Javert were anyone else, he would be mortified by this situation. Fortunately, Javert isn’t anyone else. Instead, he’s just pissed off.

“God _fucking_ damn it,” Javert says, holding a hand over his nose like that will somehow make it stop hurting like hell. Damn. First broken nose of the year and it’s only fucking February.

“Here,” Madeleine says, shoving a paper towel at him. “You’re bleeding.”

“Oh really? I didn’t fucking know that,” Javert spits back at him sarcastically, snatching the paper towel anyway. Damn Madeleine and his damn perfect ass.

Madeleine has the sense to look away awkwardly, but his eyes are back again soon enough. “How’s your... face?”

Javert has enough presence to glare at him and his own stupid handsome face.

“Broken nose,” Javert tells him. “I’ll live. It’s not like I’m getting any uglier.”

“Yeah,” Madeleine agrees.

Javert is about to shoot back with some kind of hateful comment, regardless of the fact that it’s true, when Madeleine continues,

“Your legs definitely make up for it.”

Javert coughs and sputters, quickly wiping away the blood and spit that certainly drips from the side of his mouth unattractively while he struggles to breathe. A single paper towel is absolutely not enough for this. “ _Excuse me?_ ”

Madeleine blinks, then seems to register what he just said. His entire face goes up in flames.

“I’m so sorry,” he says in a rush. “I just— You come here a lot and, well, I couldn’t help but notice you have, um, really nice calves.” He pauses. “And quads. And, well, your, ah, everything is... well... nice...”

Javert is suspecting he might be hallucinating this. The impact could have done it, or he might have just lost more blood than he thought in the last thirty seconds or so. Head wounds bleed a lot, after all.

“This is your fault,” he says again, because Madeleine certainly didn’t hear him the first time and he is seriously doubting he’s having this conversation right now.

“I’m sorry?”

“This. Is. Your. Fault,” Javert enunciates clearly, or as clearly as he can with a broken and bleeding nose.

Madeleine only looks confused. Damn. Maybe instead of being an asshole gym rat, he’s a simpleton gym rat. In Javert’s mind, that is far worse than simply being an asshole.

“Whatever,” Javert says eventually with a scowl. “Move. I need a mirror to set my fucking nose and a sink to clean up.”

“Shouldn’t you go to a doctor for that?” Madeleine asks.

“Why?” Javert asks, irritated but entirely baffled. It’s just like that ‘ _hey_ ’ stuff. And the stupid wave. Why is Madeleine so set on acknowledging him? They don’t even know each other. That niggling, inconclusive feeling of recognition remains, but Madeleine would have at least said something in this conversation if they’ve met before.

“Because it’s broken?” Madeleine answers, his voice lifting in misplaced concern.

Javert wants to both roll his eyes and glare at him. He settled on the glare. “I can do it myself. It’s best to do it now before the swelling kicks in.”

“Oh,” Madeleine says uselessly. His eyes are hazel, leaning on the green side. Or maybe that’s just the effect that his disgusting neon yellow shirt is having on Javert’s vision. God, his terrible clothes throw Javert off so much.

Javert gets up, refusing the hand Madeleine belatedly extends, and attempts to shoulder his way past. Hitting Madeleine is like hitting a fucking wall and he chokes on blood again, falling into a coughing fit. Shit. He’s going to need more paper towels than this if this keeps fucking happening.

“Let me help you,” Madeleine says, then his hand lands hesitantly at Javert’s lower back, large and warm. Like a brand, Javert can’t help but think, and the comparison has him choking a little more at the ridiculousness of it. Madeleine could probably break him with those arms of his, but his touch is gentle.

“‘M fine,” Javert wheezes.

The hand stills. “Are you sure?”

Javert clenches his teeth, but Madeleine is quick to continue.

“It’s really no bother,” he says quickly. “Really. The least I can do.”

“Well,” Javert mutters. “If it’s the _least_ you can do...”

Madeleine’s face turns red again. It’s quite the look on him.

Javert is unnecessarily accompanied to the bathroom where he proceeds to mutter swears under his breath and complain how much resetting his nose fucking hurts, blood dripping down his lips and into the sink. Disgusting. It’s a wonder Madeleine is still here.

“Don’t you have better shit to do than watch this?” Javert mutters. God, he looks like a wreck. More than usual, anyway. “What about the kid?”

“Marius?” Madeleine asks, handing him a handful of paper towels before Javert could reach for them. Maybe not a simpleton then.

“Whatever,” Javert mutters. He’s lucky his hair is still more or less held back by bobby pins or it’d be even more disgusting than it is. He scowls at himself in the mirror, deeming his nose straight enough. It’s not like it won’t get broken again in his line of work soon enough.

Shit. _Work_.

“—aid kit?”

Javert blinks. “What?”

“Ah, there’s a first-aid kit at the front counter,” Madeleine says. “Do you want—“

“No,” Javert answers, not bothering to let him finish. “I have ice at home and at work. Fuck. Chabouillet will never let me hear the end of this.”

“Is that your... boss? Or...?”

“It’s none of your fucking business,” Javert mutters, trying to scrub the blood from his face. At least the bleeding has slowed some so it’s not an entirely wasted effort.

Madeleine is quiet for a long time. Javert sighs, the sound half a growl.

“Yes, Chabouillet’s my boss,” Javert tells him, scowling.

“Oh,” Madeleine says, strangely perking up a little. Weird.

“Guess I should go home,” Javert mutters to himself. “Shit. Fucking hate broken noses.”

“Are you sure you shouldn’t see a doctor?” Madeleine asks.

“Yes, I’m sure!” Javert snaps. “I can do it myself.”

“Okay, okay,” Madeleine says quickly. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

Javert tries to glare at him, still bent over the sink as he is. “Yeah, sure.”

“Really. I’m just... concerned.”

Javert snorts, regretting it instantly when everything throbs with pain. Whatever’s broken starts bleeding sluggishly again. Fuck.

Madeleine’s hand hovers over his shoulder. “Are you—?”

“I’m fine!” Javert growls, attempting to clean his face with the already used paper towels in his hand.

Madeleine silently gets another handful of them. Javert accepts them grudgingly. “You don’t have to stick around for this, you know.”

“Oh, ah, y-yes, I suppose,” Madeleine says awkwardly, suddenly looking elsewhere. He runs a hand through his hair, only instead of brushing back his wayward fringe out of his eyes he only brings it forward as if to hide. The gesture sparks another flicker of recognition, but Javert still has no idea where he could have met this guy before. He almost wants to ask, but then remembers that he really shouldn’t get his hopes up. If they had met before, Madeleine would have said so. Right?

It’s another five or ten minutes before Javert’s nose stops bleeding and there’s no trace of blood on his face, but already the skin under his eyes is turning purple and a large bruise is forming over the bridge of his nose. Another unattractive look on his unattractive face, but it’s probably an improvement on being covered in blood. Madeleine still hasn’t left, silently handing him more paper towels and bringing the waste basket next to the sink. Javert doesn’t thank him even though he knows he probably should. He’s just too pissed off.

“Looks good,” Madeleine says when Javert turns off the water. Javert only barely refrains from snorting his disbelief, remembering what a mistake that is right now.

“Yeah, I’m sure,” he says instead with as much dry sarcasm as he can manage. It’s quite a bit. “The bruising is probably an improvement.”

“That’s, ah, not exactly what I meant?” Madeleine stutters. “It looks straight, more than before. I mean not before you, ah, broke it, but before you fixed it?” He’s not even looking at Javert anymore, cheeks red and hands held anxious and tight against his chest. “It- It’s a good job, is what I mean to say, well, I actually—“

“You can stop anytime,” Javert says, amused despite himself.

Madeleine ducks his head, nearly a flinch. Again, that damned recognition. “Ah. Sorry. I had a whole thing on what I was going to say to you, someday, and this... this isn’t it.”

Javert takes a long moment to blink. “Oh,” he says.

“I’m not very good at this,” Madeleine says. “I had it all planned out, well not everything, but I was working on it!”

“Oh,” Javert says again.

“I was going to ask how much you run,” Madeleine continues, “and maybe if you have opinions on treadmills or if you ever bike and if you think I should get some stationary bikes in here—“

“What?”

“You know...” Madeleine holds his hands out in front of him and hunches his shoulders, clearly attempting to mimic riding a bike. “Exercise bicycles?”

“I know what a stationary bike is!” Javert snaps. “What do you mean by getting one?”

Madeleine blinks, posture returning to normal. “Well, because I don’t have any right now? I only have the three treadmills since indoor gyms aren’t as popular in Paris as they are in other places. Probably the climate, I think, but proper weight equipment is expensive so I thought—“

“You’re the _owner?_ ” Javert interrupts, not bothering to hide his disbelief.

Another blink. “Yes?”

Javert goes to cover his eyes with his hand, but accidentally touches a swollen part of his face and ends up muttering a swear at the pain instead. Shit. Why didn’t he put that together? He’s a policeman for fucks sake. A disgrace to his profession.

“That’s why you’re always here,” Javert mutters to himself. “God, I’m an idiot.”

Madeleine does the thing where he pulls his hair over his eyes again. “I don’t like going around announcing it, but yes, I’m the owner. I like to get feedback when I can and there aren’t a lot of people who come here to run, so I thought I could lead with that...”

“I’ve had my bike stolen three fucking times since I moved to Paris,” Javert mutters. “I don’t bike anymore. Not worth it. The subway is fine.”

“Oh,” Madeleine says. “Would, ah, would you use a stationary bike? If I had one or two?”

“No,” Javert answers, carefully rubbing his eyes. Madeleine is surprisingly exhausting. “I rode for transport, I run to stay in shape. My job can be physically demanding and requires stamina on occasion. My colleagues of similar age may think it acceptable to let themselves go and leave that part of the job to the youngsters, but I certainly won’t.”

“Ah,” Madeleine says.

“Is there anything else?” Javert asks impatiently. “I still have to go home to shower before my shift.”

“Oh, a-ah...” Madeleine stumbles. His cheeks turn pink again. It shouldn’t be as endearing as it is. “Only if you, ah, if you might be...”

Javert waits, raising an eyebrow when Madeleine draws the pause out too long. “If I might be what?”

“C-coming back!” Madeleine says quickly, looking at some point over Javert’s shoulder. “I hope that, ah, this,” he gestures to Javert’s face, “won’t drive you away? I’m so sorry, I swear I’ll look into a newer model of treadmill with some of those safety features I’ve read about—“

“Not for a while, probably,” Javert says, cutting Madeleine off and cursing immediately himself for not saying no. Fuck. He should say no. This is the perfect excuse not to come back, to return to jogging around the city again like he used to before that fucking cold snap that drove him here, but he’s screwed now. He said he would. Shit. Fuck. Goddamnit.

He curses Madeleine’s stupid fucking booty shorts. Surely, they’re more to blame than Javert’s weakness is. Surely.

“O-oh?” Madeleine asks, finally shutting up for one goddamn second.

“I shouldn’t be doing much with a broken nose,” Javert explains. “Head wounds are stupid that way.”

“Oh.” Madeleine stills his nervous energy, seeming to only just realize he was even tense and forcing his wide shoulders to relax again. “So, ah, when can- when will I see you again?”

Javert shrugs. “Week or two. Maybe less if I start to go out of my mind with paperwork.”

A small, shy smile appears on Madeleine’s lips. Oh fuck, why did Javert never notice his lips until now? They’re a pale pink, hardly notable compared to his arms that easily bench twice Javert’s body weight like nothing, but now that Javert has noticed them he can’t look away. They’re kind and suited to his face and smiling. At him. Madeleine is smiling at him.

Javert doesn’t hear anything of what Madeleine says next when he’s struck absolutely stupid by that tiny smile.

“Pardon?” Javert asks distantly.

“I said that there’s showers here,” Madeleine says, apparently repeating himself. “If you don’t want to always go home before work.”

“I know,” Javert replies. “I avoid public showers when I can.”

“They’re clean,” Madeleine assures him quickly. “I’m very insistent on that. The machines and weights, too.”

“That’s...” Damn. Now Javert can’t look at him and not think of the exact turn of his lips, even if remembering his face just won’t fucking happen with his prosopagnosia. “...not why I avoid them.”

“Ah.”

The smile is gone. Javert wants it back.

“Me too, actually,” Madeleine adds awkwardly.

Javert takes a long moment to desperately try not to think of Madeleine in the shower. He fails. He fails terribly. He thinks he might not mind the possibility of other people looking at him in disgust or the slurs they’ll throw at him if he had the opportunity to see Madeleine with his shirt off. Always with the sleeves. Javert still doesn’t know why he always wears those damned long sleeved neon shirts when he apparently doesn’t care that his thighs are on full display, not to mention the sheer lack of imagination required to picture his ass without them.

“Well,” Madeleine says after a long silence. “I guess I should... let you go then.”

“Mm,” Javert agrees in a wordless hum. Madeleine has the body of a god. And he smiles like one too. Javert doesn’t know if that’s better or worse than simply lusting after the man because he’s built like a fucking truck. Probably worse, considering nothing will ever happen and Javert will just be stuck wanting until he manages to forget him. “Should go home. Yeah.”

“I hope you feel better soon,” Madeleine tells him. He sounds sincere.

“Sure,” Javert says, a moment later realizing that ‘ _sure_ ’ is not a proper response to what Madeleine said, but he also doesn’t particularly care.

He collects his water bottle and phone that was left at the treadmill, catching sight of the yoga girl at once making her way over to Madeleine and asking him something with a sense of urgency. The scrawny twink lingers behind, looking awkward. Whatever. Probably nothing to do with him and more about how Madeleine had straight up abandoned him in favor of Javert.

Somehow, the thought makes him feel smug.

—

It’s only five days before he starts to go out of his mind with paperwork. Chabouillet raised an eyebrow at Javert’s broken nose but thankfully didn’t ask any question. Unfortunately, he also pulled Javert from every field assignment he had and stuck him on paperwork and filling in for dispatch. He hates dispatch almost as much as he hates paperwork. Too much interacting with his irritating idiot colleagues. He’s noticed over the years that the police tends to draw a certain kind of person, and it turns out that Javert hates those people. Joining the police means hard work and enforcing justice, not fucking around and flaunting the power of their uniforms. So it really isn’t surprising that he doesn’t really have any friends except his superior, mentor, and kind of friend Chabouillet, who shares his opinion but has a much higher tolerance for bullshit.

Instead of talking through his irritation with someone like a normal person as he surely wouldn’t bother Chabouillet with this, he goes to Madeleine’s gym to walk it off. And maybe to see Madeleine again. Sometimes looking at Madeleine makes him forget everything he’s pissed about. He doesn’t expect to work up a sweat since he shouldn’t be running with a broken nose so soon, so he doesn’t bother pinning his hair up or changing into his usual running shirt. A small part of him hopes Madeleine will notice a difference in hairstyle, but that’s also ridiculous and he attempts to quash it with an effort. It doesn’t work and he re-ties his ponytail four times to make it look nice before he leaves his apartment.

He’s pathetic.

Madeleine, unfortunately, is nowhere to be seen when Javert walks in. No one waves to him or calls out a ‘ _hey_ ’. Javert scowls, but still claims his usual treadmill and drops his water bottle into the holder. He shouldn’t be getting his hopes up. There’s no trace of blood on the display so that’s good, since there’s no way he managed to break his nose on the thing and not drip on it. Looks like Madeleine hasn’t gotten around to replacing the treadmills as he said, or maybe he only said that to reassure Javert but had no intention on actually doing it anytime soon. He frowns. He kind of hoped that Madeleine was serious.

He shouldn’t be hoping. That’s ridiculous. Madeleine is one of the most attractive men Javert has ever seen in person and, while somewhat anxious, seems to be a genuinely nice person. There’s absolutely no way in hell an ugly bastard like Javert deserves him. Madeleine is far out of his league and Javert doesn’t have the time to fuck around with relationships. Madeleine is probably straight anyway or wouldn't want someone like him. It’s usually how Javert’s luck runs.

Scowling at his own foolishness, he punches in his normal goal of five kilometers into the machine, but sets the speed to a fraction of his usual. It’ll take longer, but he really can’t look at another goddamn report right now without being tempted to burn it. God. He hates not working the streets. He’ll bet anything his neatly organized case files are going to be a mess when he’s allowed back.

He’s walked two kilometers when he hears someone call his name, drawing him out of his thoughts.

“Javert?”

Javert blinks and looks up, seeing Madeleine over by a door he assumes to be his office. He’s still wearing something horribly neon with long sleeves, which is the only way Javert recognizes him, but today he’s wearing jeans instead of those damn booty shorts. Javert is immediately disheartened. Maybe he’s not training anyone today and Javert won’t get to ogle him.

Not ogle. He’s a fifty-five year old cop for fuck’s sake. He doesn’t ogle. Observe. Yes, he means observe.

“Yeah?” Javert replies thoughtlessly, forgetting for a moment that he usually spends his time ignoring all of Madeleine’s attempts to get his attention. Damnit. He doesn’t need Madeleine thinking they’re friends.

Madeleine’s face is somewhat pale, now that he’s looking. Maybe he’s not feeling well today. Probably, considering how he’s staring at Javert like that when he’s usually shy about eye contact.

“What?” Javert asks, getting annoyed. “You were there when I broke it. The bruising gets worse before it gets better.”

“Ah, sorry,” Madeleine says quickly, walking over. “I was just, well, surprised?”

Javert rolls his eyes. “Said it would be sooner if I got sick of paperwork. Guess what? I’m fucking sick of paperwork.”

Madeleine doesn’t smile. Damnit.

“Your hair is... different,” Madeleine says awkwardly.

Javert almost asks if he likes it, but that would be stupid so he doesn’t.

“It’s usually like this,” Javert tells him instead. “I hate it when it sticks to my neck when I run though, so I put it up.”

“I... see.”

Javert scowls at him. “What?”

Madeleine looks away abruptly. “Ah, nothing.”

Javert huffs. “Sure, nothing. How do you know my name, anyway? Went through your records for my registration?”

“Something like that,” Madeleine says quietly, staring at him with a weird look on his face. “Um, Javert?”

“I’m right here,” Javert mutters.

“Do you, ah...” he trails off. Javert fixes an irritated look on him.

“Do I what?” he asks when Madeleine seems content to leave the question hanging. “I’m not a fucking mind reader.”

“Sorry,” Madeleine apologizes quickly, looking away. “I only wanted to ask if you- if you have an opinion on treadmill manufacturers?”

Javert narrows his eyes, because that’s absolutely not what Madeleine actually wanted to ask. “No,” he answers anyway. “I know how they work but I haven’t wasted time looking into shit I don’t have access to. Get whatever you want. It’s your place, isn’t it?”

Madeleine does the thing where he brushes his hair in front of his eyes. Shit, where has Javert seen that before?

“Well, ah, yes, but I think you’re the most frequent user of the treadmills, so I thought I would ask what you wanted...”

Javert rolls his eyes. “I don’t care. It doesn’t have to be fancy.”

Madeleine is quiet, but doesn’t walk away. Javert is tempted to up the speed on the treadmill to make a point, but he really shouldn’t even be jogging with his nose the way it is right now. Maybe next week he’ll be healed enough to jog.

“Was there anything else?” Javert asks irritably. “Or are you just going to stand there uselessly just to piss me off?”

Madeleine startles. “What? Oh, n-no, there wasn’t. Sorry. Spaced off a little there, ha...”

He’s acting weird, nearly to the point of suspicion, but then again Javert doesn’t know anything about the guy other than the fact that he has a perfect body and that he’s nice and that they’ve probably never met before. Which isn’t much to go on.

“Well, feel free to fuck off and leave me in peace anytime,” Javert mutters. “Had to deal with my fucking infuriating coworkers all week so I’m really not in the mood to talk.”

“Oh,” Madeleine says. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m not a damn babysitter,” Javert continues anyway. “How many fucking times do I have to tell those fuckwits that you actually have to have a substantial reason to arrest someone and not just make up ridiculous charges because someone looked at them funny? God. They’re exactly why the police have the shitty reputation that it has and I hate it.”

“I’m sorry,” Madeleine says again. It sounds like he means it. “So you’re... police?”

Javert curses himself for going on about that. He’s not pleasant to begin with, but people have a tendency to treat him differently when they learn he’s a cop.

“Yeah,” he grits out. “I’m just trying to do my fucking job though, and my job isn’t preventing other cops from arresting perfectly innocent civilians simply because they can. That’s not justice. That’s not what the police are supposed to do.”

He makes himself shut up with an effort before he can dig himself deeper into this hole he’s in. Shit. Maybe he should have vented to Chabouillet. Then it would be out of his system. He focuses on walking.

Madeleine is quiet for a long moment. “You’re a good man, aren’t you?”

If Javert hadn’t been paying such close attention to his feet, he likely would have tripped. Again.

“I’m—“ He stares at Madeleine, then punches the stop button on the machine so he can fucking focus on this. “ _What?_ ”

Madeleine frowns in confusion. “What?”

Javert nearly snarls at him. “What the hell do you mean by that? Calling me a good man?”

Madeleine blinks. “Well, you are. You know how corrupted your profession can be and you’re trying to prevent it. I think that’s admirable.”

Javert glares at him for long moments, waiting for him to take it back. Madeleine only looks back innocently at him with those damn hazel-green eyes of his and that fluffy white hair and those fucking perfect lips of his.

“It shouldn’t be admirable,” Javert mutters, turning back to the machine and hitting resume. “It’s how things should be to begin with.”

“It’s still an uphill battle though, right?” Madeleine says, leaning a perfect, muscular arm clad in hideous neon on the treadmill’s display close enough to touch. Somehow, Javert manages to restrain himself. His hands twitch.

“Always has been,” Javert answers, glaring down at the little numbers slowly ticking down on the machine. “The job of the police isn’t supposed to be easy. If it’s easy, then you’re not doing your fucking job the right way, if at all. Everyone who signs up should know that.”

“Isn’t there a lot of internal pressure?” Madeleine asks. “I’ve... read some studies. About how bad the peer pressure can get.”

Javert barks a sharp, ugly laugh at the idea of him giving in to something as petty as peer pressure. It has Madeleine jumping, his arm drawing away.

“Yeah, I guess, if you care about shit like that,” Javert says. He can’t stop the grin on his face, all teeth and gums, at the absurdity of it. “But it’s stupid. Why the fuck would I want to be a part of something that goes directly against my moral code? They’re all fucking idiots, anyway. I don’t need them and I can perform perfectly well by myself. It’s not ideal, but I’d take the risk over trying to work with people deliberately trying to sabotage me.” He forces his lips to stop smiling, seeing how it only seems to disturb Madeleine. It disturbs everyone. His smile has something feral in it, he’s been told, and that he probably should do something about it. He has no plans to do anything about it.

Madeleine is quiet, looking at him oddly again like he’s somehow interesting.

“What?” Javert asks, scowling once more.

“Aren’t you lonely?” Madeleine asks.

Javert nearly chokes.

“I mean,” Madeleine continues, oblivious to Javert’s reaction, “it doesn’t sound like you have many friends.”

“I don’t do friends,” Javert says flatly. He kind of wants to tell Madeleine it’s none of his fucking business if Javert is lonely or has any friends, but this conversation has been... nice. Madeleine is nice, likely too nice, and if this trend of them talking continues Javert’s going to fuck up someday and seriously hurt him. He doesn’t want to fuck up. He doesn’t want to take advantage of Madeleine’s kindness.

But it’s _nice_ , and there’s not a lot of nice things like this in Javert’s life.

“Oh,” Madeleine says softly. Javert expects him to look at him with pity, but instead he simply looks sad and confused.

“I have my boss,” Javert says awkwardly, not used to intentionally volunteering information about himself like this but oddly wanting to make Madeleine feel better. “He’s good and doesn’t stand for bullshit when he can help it. Keeps trying to promote me when he knows perfectly well that I don’t want it, but he’s, uh, kind of my friend. I guess. Puts up with me at least.”

Madeleine stays quiet and somehow seems to get more sad. Goddamnit.

“Look,” Javert says, somewhat resigned, “I’m not exactly a people person. I know I’m not pleasant to be around and I’m okay with that. I really like working, even if it’s frustrating and hard, and I don’t have a lot of time to fuck around with shit like recreation and whatever. I don’t see the point.”

“That doesn’t mean you’re not lonely,” Madeleine says. “You never said you weren’t.”

He didn’t, because although sometimes he denies the truth to himself, he doesn’t ever lie intentionally. And Madeleine’s right. He is lonely.

He looks away with a grimace.

“Oh— I’m sorry,” Madeleine apologizes. “That’s rather personal, isn’t it?”

Javert shrugs wordlessly. Yeah, it is, but somehow he... doesn’t mind too much that it’s Madeleine who knows. Probably because Madeleine is too nice of a guy to use it against him.

“Do you want me to leave you alone now?” Madeleine asks.

“If I really wanted you to leave, I would have told you to fuck off by now,” Javert says. “It’s fine.”

“No, I let my curiosity get the better of me,” Madeleine says. “I shouldn’t have asked.”

“I said it’s fine,” Javert repeats. “Really, don’t worry about it.”

Madeleine is quiet, perfect pale pink lips set in a little frown and broad shoulders curved slightly inward. God, he’s hot. Without the booty shorts distracting him, Javert can really focus on his chest and arms. It’s clearly what Madeleine focuses on, but he doesn’t draw attention to it by taking his shirt off like other men would. It would be an absolute disaster for Javert’s higher brain functions if Madeleine ever did take his shirt off, but he did say that he also doesn’t like public showers. Probably not for the same reason as Javert, but maybe he’s got scars or something. Or maybe just really shitty self-confidence and that’s the reason why he works out to begin with.

“Um, Javert?” Madeleine asks, looking rather uncomfortable.

Javert blinks back to himself and realizes that he’s been staring at Madeleine’s perfect chest for nearly a quarter of a kilometer. He draws his eyes back up to Madeleine’s face, where his hair is falling over his eyes again.

“What?” Javert asks, refusing to admit that he’d been checking out Madeleine to his face, even if it’s really obvious he’s been doing exactly that for months now.

“You can... always come here if you’re lonely,” Madeleine says softly, nearly hesitant. “If you want to talk, I’ll listen. I’m... not exactly outgoing, well I have this place and my daughter, but...” He pulls his bangs in front of his eyes again. “I- I would like to be your friend.”

Javert stares at him in confusion.

“If you want,” Madeleine adds quickly, his cheeks flushing an embarrassed pink that’s quickly turning darker. “Only if you want, and you can take however long you want deciding, and I won’t be offended if you say no, and- and—“ He covers his face with his hands, shoulder curling in. “Why am I so horrible at this?” he groans, muffled and nearly unintelligible.

“Uh,” Javert says uselessly, still very much confused. “You... what?”

“I want to be friends with you,” Madeleine says into his hands.

“You realize I’m an asshole, right?” Javert asks. “I’m not a nice person.”

“I know,” Madeleine answers, slowly lowering his hands but not looking at him. “I know we haven’t talked much, but I’ve, ah, seen you here? And you seem very honest, which I appreciate, and, well, I... I really don’t mind. I prefer honesty to kindness.”

Javert narrows his eyes, trying to figure out what the fuck his motive is.

“Why?” Javert asks at last.

Madeleine ducks his head in a motion that’s nearly a flinch. It sparks that damn familiarity again. “I just... I find you interesting? You’re lonely and I’m kind of lonely too and I... I thought it could be nice.”

How can a man who looks as good as Madeleine does and is as nice as he is be lonely? He could talk to anyone, whoever he wanted, and be welcome. Why the hell would he pick an ugly bastard like Javert?

“You can just say no,” Madeleine says eventually when Javert takes too long to respond. He’s sad and awkward and has stuck his hands in the pockets of his jeans with his shoulders around his ears. Javert doesn't like it. “Really, it would be fine if you would... rather not. I won’t bother you again.”

“No, wait, uh, fuck,” Javert says quickly, not quite knowing what to do and cursing himself for letting his cop paranoia fuck this up. “Shit. I mean, let me think about it? I guess?”

“Oh.” Madeleine doesn’t look any less anxious.

“I don’t, uh, haven’t ever really done friends,” Javert says, absolutely sure he’s putting his foot directly into his mouth but unable to stop himself. “It doesn’t happen to me, because I’m a bastard. Which is fine, because I hate people, but you’re not so bad and haven’t really done anything to piss me off yet except be mildly annoying.”

“Oh,” Madeleine says again, only looking more confused.

The treadmill beeps and comes to a stop. Huh. Already? He didn’t realize how long he’s been taking to Madeleine.

“I haven’t decided on what brand to order yet,” Madeleine says. “For the new treadmills. Sorry.”

Javert rolls his eyes, grabbing his water bottle. “It’s your place. Do whatever you want.”

Madeleine looks like he’s about to ask something more, but abruptly looks away instead. Whatever.

“I have paperwork at home,” Javert says. “Should get back to it, even if it’s awful.”

“Good luck,” Madeleine says. “And, ah, think about it, will you? I liked talking to you today, even if I’m... bad at it.”

“You’re not bad at it,” Javert mutters. “But yeah, it was, uh, nice.”

All of a sudden, Madeleine perks up and stands straighter, more casual and less fearful. His eyes are bright. In fact, it even looks like he’s suppressing a smile. What the fuck?

“Yes, yes it was,” Madeleine says. “I, ah, when do you think you’ll be back?”

Javert shrugs. “Depends on my caseload and how much my coworkers piss me off.”

“Well, I’ll be here,” Madeleine tells him. “Usually in the office there,” he gestures to the closed-off room in the corner where he emerged from, “if I’m not out here coaching someone. Even if you decide you don’t want to be friends, I’ll be happy to listen if you need to talk.”

His usual awkwardness is mostly gone, replaced with a hesitant yet enthusiastic energy. Javert doesn’t get it, but it’s beyond obvious that Madeleine actually does like being around him and he’s not just saying shit. It’s kind of... nice.

Javert goes home feeling lighter than usual. He still doesn’t know what to do about the whole friends thing. It’s weird but refreshing to be obviously liked rather than despised. He could get used to it, maybe. Being friends might be worse than pining over his perfectly muscular ass in those tiny booty shorts, being close enough to touch but not allowed to and all. So that’s probably a downside. But Javert isn’t good enough for a guy like Madeleine anyway so it really shouldn’t matter.

He doesn’t get much paperwork done and spends a great deal of time face down on top of it on his kitchen table instead.

—

Javert’s coworkers continue to be infuriating, not listening to him and talking behind his back in a way that he thinks is supposed to be demeaning but only manages to piss him off more. It’s what they always do, for the most part, but spending extended time in the station only makes everything worse. He can’t fucking wait to go back to the field where he belongs. To make it worse, Chabouillet is again trying to convince him to take that promotion that will take him out of the field and directly into a desk job, which he hates, and Javert is doing his best to avoid him.

Today, he escapes the station to spend his lunch hour at some random cafe a few streets over from the station. He’s still in his uniform, because why would he change clothes just for lunch, which makes people immediately both curious and wary of him, and only serves to make him even more irritated. All he wants is some goddamn peace and quiet, is that too much to ask?

“Javert?”

Apparently, it is. He growls, coffee in one hand and sandwich in the other, and turns to whoever wants his attention now. An older white-haired man in dark clothes is looking at him expectantly.

“What?” he asks, not bothering to hide his irritation. “I’m on lunch, better be important.”

The man blinks. Javert has no idea who he is, goddamnit. Maybe the guy from the break-in thing a few weeks ago? Javert thinks he had white hair.

“If you want to know if I’ve tracked down your property, ask me when I’m on the clock,” Javert says. “I’ve been off fieldwork for a week and a half and I have no idea how that’s going.”

“...what?” the man asks, looking quite confused. Shit. Not the break-in guy.

“Never mind,” Javert mutters. “Thought you were someone else.”

“Oh,” the man says. “Um, we talked not that long ago.”

“I talk to a lot of people,” Javert growls. “It’s unfortunately part of my job.”

“No, ah, at the gym?”

Oh. _Oh_. It’s Madeleine. Somehow, the concept that Madeleine exists outside of his gym didn’t really occur to him.

“Oh,” Javert says, irritation from being interrupted at lunch evaporating. “Shit, sorry.”

“Do you... not recognize me?” Madeleine asks.

“Honestly? No,” Javert replies. “I’ve got fairly bad prosopagnosia. I’ve never seen you outside the gym and you’re usually in some terrible neon thing so it didn’t occur to me to think of you.” Not to mention the booty shorts, which would have Javert recognizing him instantly, but Javert figures he probably shouldn’t mention that.

“Oh,” Madeleine says. “What’s proso...?”

“Prosopagnosia,” Javert fills in. “Face blindness. It means I can’t remember or recognize faces for shit, which is a huge pain in the ass in my line of work.” He holds up his sandwich. “I’m about to have lunch.”

“May I join you?”

Javert rolls his eyes. “Obviously.”

Javert finds them a table, outside because this is Paris and every fucking café in Paris has more outdoor seating than indoor, and falls into the chair with a huff. It’s still cold, being March and all, but it’s not unbearable.

“Rough day?” Madeleine asks.

Javert grunts. “You could say that. My boss wants to promote me to a desk job again. I’m going to pass, as usual, but he’s being remarkably stubborn. I like working the field. I don’t want to be promoted and have to deal with the media and politics and all that shit.” He looks at Madeleine’s empty hands. “You going to eat something?”

Madeleine shakes his head. “I saw you through the window and wanted to say hello.”

“Oh,” Javert says, not really knowing how he’s supposed to respond to that, before shrugging it off and biting into his sandwich.

“So you really only recognize me by my workout clothes?” Madeleine asks.

“Mostly,” Javert answers with a mouthful of chicken. He swallows with effort. “I go off haircuts a lot. Context usually helps. The parquet I generally work with is missing a hand so I can usually recognize Gisquet if I can see his right arm. Chabouillet has this hideous fucking mustache from the 70s he refuses to shave off that no one else alive would wear.” He shrugs. "Little things like that.”

Madeleine hums thoughtfully. Javert turns back to his sandwich.

“Have you, ah, thought about it?” Madeleine asks after a while.

“Hmm?”

“Being friends.”

Javert finishes his sandwich to give himself time to think, then takes a long sip of coffee for good measure. By the time he’s done, Madeleine is clearly struggling to keep from fidgeting,

“You’re very nice,” Javert says at last. “Probably the most genuinely nice person I’ve ever met, which, given my profession, isn’t saying much.” He takes a breath. “I’m not nice. At all. And I don’t plan to start. I’m cynical and hateful and I like it that way, mostly. It’s good for work, not so much for interacting with civilians. I hate people so it’s not been much of a problem.”

Madeleine looks down at the table, shoulders tense and hair hiding his eyes. Javert clenches his teeth together.

“I’ll... hurt you,” he says with an effort. “I’ll hurt you and it’ll be thoughtless and cruel because that’s what I am, and I don’t want to do that. You’re too much of a good person for me. I appreciate the offer, but I can’t see any way this is going to work without me fucking it up.”

“Oh,” Madeleine says softly.

“I can’t remember anyone asking to be my friend before,” Javert tells him. “So, uh, thanks for that. Makes me feel a little less shitty when my coworkers are being insufferable.”

Madeleine says nothing for a long moment. Javert looks away, hating himself for making Madeleine look so depressed but knowing it’s the right thing to do, and drinks his coffee.

“Are you... sure?” Madeleine says.

Javert huffs. “Not really. Hard call to make, but I’ve never really done friends and I’m pretty sure I’ll be bad at it. You’re too nice to be my verbal punching bag.”

“I’m not so fragile, Javert,” Madeleine says. “I think I could handle a couple of wayward remarks.”

Javert looks at him from the corner of his eye. Madeleine is watching him with an odd sort of stubbornness now. Huh. Didn’t know the guy had it in him.

“Why me?” Javert asks, turning to face him. “Really, I have to know. Out of everyone who comes through your gym, you pick me. Why is that? Surely you have other regulars, people who know how to be nice and whatever. People who aren’t so ugly and cruel. I mean look at you! You’re—“ _perfect_ “—nice and—“ _hot_ “—handsome and—“ _out of my league_ “—deserve better than someone like me.”

Madeleine ducks his head, a pretty pink blush on his cheeks. “I’m really not. I mean, I try to be nice, but I’m not...” his blush deepens, “...handsome, not at my age.”

Javert cannot believe what he’s hearing right now.

“What.”

“Ah, it’s very kind of you to say that and I’m quite flattered,” Madeleine says, “but I’m quite plain.”

“No?” Javert says, somehow making it into a question. “Do you know what a mirror is? Have you _looked_ in one?”

Madeleine only blushes darker. “Really, Javert—“

“As a rule, I don’t lie,” Javert interrupts. “Ever. Not unless I have to or if it simplifies information. I don’t see the point. Can you just take the fucking compliment where it’s deserved?”

Madeleine doesn’t seem to know what to say to that.

“That’s not the point, anyway,” Javert says, leaning back in his chair. “The point is that I don’t get why someone like you would even look twice at someone like me. I don’t even know your name.”

Madeleine looks away abruptly. It’s suspicious.

“Wait,” Javert says, suddenly getting a terrible feeling. “Have we met before? Because sometimes you do shit that’s really damn familiar but I have no idea where I’ve seen it.”

“It was... a long time ago,” Madeleine says, decidedly not looking at him. “Years. You might not even remember me...”

“Just because I’m shit at recognizing people doesn’t mean I forget them entirely,” Javert growls. He doesn’t like where this is going, not one bit.

“To be fair,” Madeleine says, “I didn’t know for certain that it was you until you came in the last time with your hair down and wearing regular clothes. You look very different with your hair up, and you didn’t have the sideburns before, and I really never expected to see you again...”

So that explains why he was a little weird.

“Can you please tell me who the fuck you are?” Javert asks.

Madeleine winces. “You’re... probably not going to like it.”

Yeah, Javert hates this.

“For the record,” Madeleine says, looking down at his hands, “I do find you interesting and still would like to be friends with you, if you’re not too angry at me. I like talking with you, surprisingly. I... thought you knew, before today, and I’m sorry for unintentionally, ah, leading you on? Is that what the kids say?”

“That’s not ‘ _what the kids say_ ’.” Javert growls. “That’s probably not anything kids say anymore, Jesus Christ. Where have you _been?_ ”

“Well, ah...” He mutters something unintelligible.

“What?”

“Prison,” Madeleine repeats, so quietly that it’s basically a whisper.

Javert’s face turns into a scowl. “ _What?_ ”

“You were, ah, my arresting officer,” Madeleine says. “Maybe thirty years ago? You were... very young.”

Javert blinks slowly, teeth still bared. Shit, he’s arrested a lot of people over his career. How the fuck is he supposed to remember this guy?

“And then... again,” Madeleine continues hesitantly. “Ah, maybe ten or so years ago. But I was pardoned that time, it was a big mess but no one’s fault, which I wasn’t expecting but was very thankful for. I think you were quite angry. Moved to Paris. I’ve been very careful ever since, not a foot out of line or penny out of place, I swear.”

Fuck. Shit. This is so damn familiar. He’s been to so many trials and been angry about most of them.

“Name?” Javert asks. Demands, rather.

Madeleine cringes. “Please don’t be mad.”

“That fucking depends, doesn’t it?” Javert snaps back.

“Ah... Jean Valjean.”

Javert crushes his coffee cup so hard it spills all over the damn place. Madeleine- Valjean flinches.

“S-so you’re angry, then?” he stutters.

“Damn right, I’m angry!” Javert growls. At least his coffee went cold several minutes ago. A small blessing. “What the fuck, Valjean?”

Somehow, Valjean curls into himself even more. “I really am very sorry. Truly—“

Javert stands, flicking cold coffee off his hand and gathers his trash. “Jesus Christ. I knew you were too perfect. I knew it!”

Valjean winces.

“What the fuck was that friend shit then, huh?” Javert snaps. “Did you mean any of that?”

“Of course I meant it,” Valjean says quietly. “I wouldn’t do that to you. Or anyone. If you can ever forgive me—“

“Don’t count on it,” Javert mutters.

Valjean winces. “W-well, the offer is still open. In case you change your mind.”

“Not fucking likely,” Javert growls. “I generally don’t make a habit of humiliating myself in front of former arrests. Have a good laugh about me, huh?”

“I never laughed at you,” Valjean says softly. “It never even crossed my mind. You’re a good man, Javert, my admiration is sincere—”

“Don’t,” Javert cuts him off. Fuck, it hurts to hear that and knows Valjean is probably lying. He was very good at it, after all. “Don’t even start with that shit, Valjean! God, why the hell did I tell you all that, anyway? Am I stupid?”

“You’re not stupid,” Valjean tells him. “I’m just...” He bites his lip and looks away. “Please, Javert. Maybe... maybe take some time to think it over? You know where to find me. My door is always open to you.”

Javert doesn’t give him an answer, shooting him a final withering glare before finding a trash can to shove his garbage into with more aggression that warranted. When he looks back at the table, Valjean is gone.


	2. Chapter 2

He doesn’t get any work done over the next few days, rapidly cycling between pissed at everyone and everything and brooding over why the betrayal hurt so much. It shouldn’t have hurt, but it did. The knife only twisted deeper when Valjean apologized and still insisted on complimenting him. Why the fuck did it hurt? Madeleine was just nice and hot and enticing to look at; it shouldn’t be much of a betrayal.

It doesn’t make sense and it just sends him back into a rage the more he thinks about it.

He remembers Valjean, the memories faded but still managing to get a rise out of him all these years later. Arrested for grand theft auto and drug trafficking. Javert was still small fry back then and wasn’t even supposed to be on that case, but he recognized Valjean by the tattoos on his arms and the terrible mullet he was sporting back then. It also helped that, at the time, Valjean was unsuccessfully trying to start the ignition of a car he didn’t have the keys to. Valjean had fought him, being much stronger than Javert even then, but Javert had managed to subdue him and it only took a black eye and some bruised ribs.

That arrest had been a fucking godsend, promotion-wise. It caught the attention of all the right people, including Chabouillet, even if he was chastised for going off on his own to do it. Javert has no idea where the hell he would be now if it weren’t for that. Maybe he wouldn’t have even met Chabouillet if it hadn’t been for Valjean, and Chabouillet had been crucial in helping Javert finally feel comfortable in his own skin. He doesn’t want to think about what he’d be like now if he had never arrested Valjean, never met Chabouillet.

Thinking back to that Valjean, who was angry and desperate and bitter, he can barely connect him to the kind, soft-spoken Madeleine. Well, at least now he knows why Madeleine always wears long sleeves. It’s been so long that Javert can’t remember the exact tattoos he has, but it probably would have sparked something if he had managed to see them. Valjean had even worn long sleeves to his own trial, now that Javert thinks about it. Showed up in a suit jacket a size too small for his shoulders and everything. Ugly fucking thing too, if he’s remembering it right. Well, Valjean’s fashion sense certainly hasn’t improved with time.

He keeps coming back to how sad Valjean had looked when Javert stormed off. It’s stupid. Javert shouldn’t care if Valjean is sad or not, but he _does_ and he _hates it_. He liked talking with Madeleine. He liked watching Madeleine do basically anything, although watching him do squats with the bar across his shoulders in those fucking orange booty shorts was a special kind of hell that he continued to subject himself to. He doesn’t want Madeleine to be sad, and knowing that Madeleine is Valjean somehow doesn’t change that.

He hates it. It’s kind of miserable. He goes two weeks without seeing Valjean and feels oddly bereft, even if jogging outside in the sort of fresh air of the city is what he should have been doing all this time. He doesn’t cancel his membership to Valjean’s gym, even though he should.

What the hell is wrong with him?

—

“I need to talk to you,” Javert says without preamble, shuttling Chabouillet’s office door behind him.

Chabouillet sighs and leans back in his chair. “Is this about Brigadier Rodin again?”

“What? No.” Javert starts pacing in front of Chabouillet’s desk, which is more of an indication that he’s not here to talk about anything work related more than anything else. Although he’s always ready to complain about fucking Rodin and his insubordination. “Do you remember Jean Valjean?”

Chabouillet frowns. “The name rings a bell...”

Javert waves a hand in the air. “Carjacker and small drugs dealer, about thirty years ago. I made the arrest when it wasn’t my case and got hell for it, but I’m pretty sure that’s the arrest that got me noticed.”

Recognition dawns. “Ah, yes. Didn’t he break parole?”

“No, that was some thieving homeless guy they thought was Valjean,” Javert answers. “Brought me in to identify him, which was a fucking waste of everyone’s time, but the actual Valjean showed up anyway so—“ He shakes his head. “Ancient history isn’t why I’m here.”

Chabouillet folds his hands on top of his desk, the image of patience. Sometimes, Chabouillet can be infuriating without doing a single damn thing.

“Ran into him a couple of months ago,” Javert starts. “Didn’t recognize him. We got to talking. It was fine. He asked if we could be friends.” Javert scowls. “Then I learned his name. I got angry. He asked if I could forgive him and try being friends anyway. I said no and he got all sad. Then I left. I haven’t seen him in two weeks.”

Chabouillet digests this all with only a mild look of surprise on his face. “And this is a problem because...?”

“Because I feel bad!” Javert snaps. “I shouldn’t feel bad!”

Chabouillet sighs, looking at him with something like exasperation. “Javert, it’s been thirty years.”

“That shouldn’t matter!” Javert scowls. “He broke the law. He’s a criminal. I’m an Inspector. I arrested him. I shouldn’t feel _bad_ about _making criminals sad_.”

Chabouillet runs his hands over his face. There’s a sound that’s suspiciously like a laugh.

“What?” Javert snarls.

“Javert,” Chabouillet says, hands again on his desk and irritating little smile on his face. “You are a brilliant, intelligent, driven officer and I’ve been very privileged to have you in my department for so many years, but you can be so incredibly stubborn.”

“What’s wrong with being stubborn?” Javert asks.

“Thirty years is a very long time,” Chabouillet says slowly, as if speaking to a child. It has Javert’s teeth grinding. “It’s more than likely that Valjean has become a better man since his arrest.”

Javert snorts dismissively.

“Can you please actually consider the possibility for a moment?” Chabouillet asks. “Really, Javert. I know you’ve changed over thirty years.”

“That’s different,” Javert snarls back at once, instantly angry for an entirely different reason. “You know that’s different!”

“Is it?” Chabouillet asks, raising an eyebrow. “When I met you—“

“Don’t,” Javert interrupts, fists clenched at his sides. “Chabouillet, don’t fucking go there.”

Chabouillet sighs and leans back in his chair. “Fine, I won’t, but you know what I'm getting at, don’t you?”

“Yeah, but you’re wrong. It’s not the same.”

“Maybe not,” Chabouillet acknowledges. “I won’t presume to know your experiences, but you didn’t immediately hate Valjean when you met him again. Your instincts are excellent and it’s rare that you actually take a liking to someone. The man has changed.”

“That doesn’t make him innocent,” Javert says. “He’s still a criminal.”

“He _was_ a criminal,” Chabouillet corrects him. “He’s served his time. You know how the system works. You were a guard for a few years, weren’t you?”

Javert would rather forget those years, but yes, he was.

“That doesn’t—“

“Don’t be deliberately stupid, Javert,” Chabouillet cuts in. “I know you’re smarter than this. Why do you want to hate Valjean so much? Has he done anything at all to make you think he’s playing you?”

Javert grits his teeth and glares at the floor. “...No.”

“Then give him a chance.”

Javert spends a few more moments trying to make the carpet catch fire with his eyes alone. “Why should I?”

Chabouillet makes a soft sound that’s nearly frustrated. “Because you _like_ him, Javert! And for some reason, he likes you enough to offer his friendship. You feel bad about hurting his feelings, so obviously you care about him at least a little. How many times have I tried to get you to make friends? It’s not healthy, the way you work all the time with hardly a break.”

Javert scowls at the old argument. “I don’t need—“

“Yes,” Chabouillet interrupts. “You do. You’re going to be 56 this year. Reading your field reports is going to give me a heart attack someday and I can’t imagine how frustrated your doctor is.”

“I like fieldwork,” Javert defends.

“I know,” Chabouillet says. “I know you do, but dear god, Javert. One of these days you’re going to get yourself killed and I’ll never forgive myself. This station needs you.”

“Is this about the promotion again?” Javert asks, narrowing his eyes. “I don’t want it. You know I won’t take it.”

“I will literally get on my knees and beg you if that’s what it takes,” Chabouillet says. He sighs, running a hand through his thinning hair. “I’m getting old, Javert. Every year, I get closer to 70, and you keep refusing to be promoted. So I stay, hoping you’ll see sense, but you haven’t. I know you like to be where the action is, that you feel that’s where you can make a difference, but I need...” He sighs again.

“What is it?” Javert asks.

“I want to retire, Javert,” Chabouillet says. “I want to retire because this job is stressful and the long hours are really getting to me now, but you’re the only person I trust with my position and you keep refusing the promotions that will get you here. Everyone knows that I’m trying to groom you to take my place except you, and I’m tired. I don’t know how much longer I can do this.”

Javert can only blink. Chabouillet? Retire? It hardly seems possible. And for Javert of all people to take his place? Ridiculous.

But he looks at Chabouillet and sees the lines on his face, the grey of his hair and how he has to work harder to keep that bald spot covered, and realizes that he’s entirely serious.

“I’ve taught you everything I know,” Chabouillet continues. “In some ways, I think of you as my son. I’m proud to have seen you grow into such a fine officer, even if you try my poor heart on occasion. I only wish that you would give yourself some time off, but I can’t force you to take up a hobby or make some friends so in a way, I’m happy to hear that someone’s managed to put up with you long enough to see what a good man you are under all your posturing. I just need you to take this promotion. You’re the only one I trust to do this job right.”

Javert is absolutely floored. “You want me to... What? No, I can’t be prefect. I hate working with people. I hate the media. I don’t have the patience for that kind of bullshit and you know it!”

“It’s exactly why you’re perfect for it,” Chabouillet tells him with an irritating smile. “You won’t put up with it, not an inch. Oh, I don’t expect the public to like you, but they’ll respect you. You won’t sacrifice justice just to make yourself look good in the papers. I have full confidence you’ll do it right.”

Chabouillet _is_ right. He would. He tries to think of other candidates, but comes up shockingly short. There’s no one else Javert trusts with that kind of power except himself, even if he would hate it. But didn’t he just tell Valjean that his job isn’t supposed to be easy?

He growls. “Fine. If everything goes to hell, I’m blaming you.”

Chabouillet brightens. “You’ll finally take the promotion?”

“Yes,” Javert says with a frown that’s half a snarl. “You’re right and I hate it, but I owe you. I have no idea how you’re going to convince anyone to let someone like me be prefect, but that’s your problem not mine.”

Chabouillet smiles at him, relieved and proud all in one expression, and it does something to Javert. He looks away, uncomfortable with it. It’s different then how Madeleine- Valjean smiles at him, but he still feels more things that he would like.

“Did you mean that?” Javert asks after a moment. “That you think of me as your son?”

“Of course I did,” Chabouillet answers. “I saw your potential immediately, unhappy and volatile as you were. I knew you would be something special, Javert, and I was right.”

Javert has to swallow down the lump in his throat. “Thank you,” he says. “For... what you did back then. Helping me. Understanding.”

Chabouillet’s smile changes to something softer. “Paying for that surgery was nothing, Javert. I’ve never regretted it. You’ve been so much happier since.”

Javert doesn’t have the voice to thank him again, so he simply nods and hopes that’s enough.

—

He spends his day off face down on his kitchen table trying to imagine himself as prefect and, when that fails utterly, moves on to thinking about Valjean. Again, Chabouillet is right and Javert hates it, but Valjean has given every indication that he’s a better man now than he was when Javert arrested him. He’s kind and helps old ladies across the street and has a bowl of candy on the front desk he gives to any child under the age of ten who happens to walk in. He drives a fucking hybrid. A green one.

Javert has the terrible realization that he’s getting old.

But Valjean is older than him by a good few years at least and still manages to bench like four hundred pounds like it’s fucking nothing, so not everything is lost. Shit. He misses watching Valjean. He wants to see Valjean’s perfect ass in those tiny shorts again. He wants to talk with Valjean. He wants to ask if Valjean is into men, and if he’s into men like Javert.

He groans into his kitchen table and knows that he’s absolutely fucked.

—

It’s late when Javert shows up to the gym. So late that it’s closed, actually, but it took him longer than it should have to convince himself to show up. Because Chabouillet is right again, and he really doesn’t have a good reason to be pissed at Valjean except for that he feels like he should. And that he doesn’t really _want_ to hate Valjean either when he’s so damn nice to him. Anyway, Valjean did say his door is always open, didn't he?

The door is decidedly closed and locked for the night. The lights are off. Javert knocks, just in case.

He’s almost as surprised to see a broad-shouldered white-haired man who can only be Valjean emerge from his office as Valjean is to see him. Valjean blinks, a conflicted look on his face. He’s wearing jeans again and some kind of dark and worn old hoodie that’s really unattractive on him. He spends so long staring at Javert that Javert knocks on the door again impatiently. Valjean startles to life, fumbling with the lock. Now that the door is open and Valjean is here, Javert has no idea what he planned on saying.

“Hey,” Valjean says.

Again with the “ _hey_ ” thing.

“Uh,” Javert says eloquently. “Can we talk?”

Valjean blinks at him for a moment.

“Oh, yes, of course,” he says quickly, rushing to step aside. “Sorry, I just, ah, didn’t expect anyone this late.”

Javert hesitates. “I can come back—“

“No, no,” Valjean says. “Now is fine! It’s fine.”

Javert thinks that it’s not actually fine, but steps inside anyway. Valjean locks the door behind him, the motion looking more like habit than anything else, and then stands awkwardly like he doesn’t know what to do with himself. Javert can relate. Fuck. Why did he come here again?

“Uh,” he says. “So...”

“Your nose looks better,” Valjean says.

“Hm? Oh, yeah.” Javert touches it self consciously. The bruising is gone, finally. “Still kind of sore, but I’ll live.”

A strained silence falls between them. Valjean clears his throat.

“Do you want to sit?” he asks. “I’d rather keep the main lights off because, well, the gym is closed, but there’s a couple of chairs in my office...?”

“Sure,” Javert says to be agreeable.

He follows Valjean to his office, finding it tinier than originally expected. There’s room for a desk, two chairs, a file cabinet, and that’s about it. There’s no windows. The desk holds a truly ancient looking monitor from out of the damn 90s with a glass screen and everything, a simple vase with a simple bouquet that looks like Valjean picked the flowers out himself, an ugly lamp, and a plethora of framed pictures. Javert doesn’t know what pictures he has from this angle. The only light is from the lamp.

“Sorry it’s so small,” Valjean apologizes, hovering awkwardly by the desk instead of sitting. Javert doesn’t sit either. “I’m only here to balance the books and other kinds of paperwork...”

“It’s fine,” Javert says. “I just, uh, came to say sorry. For my behavior at the café. It was unprofessional and uncalled for when you’ve been nothing but nice to me. Your arrest has... a lot of personal significance that doesn’t have anything to do with you specifically.”

“Good or bad?” Valjean asks.

Javert blinks. “Uh, kind of both? I was no one before I arrested you, and after I was suddenly getting a lot of attention. Really helped my career. Met my boss then too, and he helped me out of, uh, a situation I hated and improved my overall quality of life. I wasn’t very happy before that. I don’t like thinking about anything before Chabouillet helped me out.”

That isn’t relevant. He should stop talking about that and Valjean certainly isn’t helping with that.

“...Anyway,” Javert continues, “ I really wanted to hate you because, well, I arrested you. It’s part of my job to hate criminals. And thinking about that arrest made me think about all that time in my life that I hate thinking about, which didn’t help. I wanted to hate you so I did, but I also felt bad for making you miserable, which was weird. Talked to my boss about it and he... made some really pointed comments about how I’ve, uh, changed in the last thirty years and that you probably did too. Kind of. So, I’m here to ask about that, I guess?”

“Oh,” Valjean says. “Well, yes, I have definitely changed. I don’t know if you knew this, but the only reason I got involved with those people was to help my sister feed her kids.”

Javert didn’t know that.

“It was easy stuff at first,” Valjean continues. “You know. Stand there and look intimidating. Maybe transport a shipment across town. I didn’t ask. I didn’t want to know. Then they said they would pay me more for other stuff. Selling drugs. Stealing cars. It sucked me in. I was one of them before I knew it and it wasn’t a good place for me. I’m grateful I got out, but... I wish it hadn’t been like that.”

Javert doesn’t know if he should apologize or not for doing his job.

“I wasn’t a good person then, Javert,” Valjean says. “I really wasn’t. My sister didn’t want me in the house towards the end, refusing the money I was getting. We had a falling out. I...” He gets a far-away, miserable look in his eyes. “It’s been so long since I’ve even thought about her. I- I wouldn’t even know where to look. I don’t know if she would ever forgive me, not when I can’t forgive myself.”

“I could, uh, look her up,” Javert offers awkwardly. He doesn’t know what to do with Valjean sad like this and he doesn’t like it. Shit. He really, really doesn’t like it when Valjean is sad. That’s weird. “If you wanted. Just... say the word and I’ll ask my boss about it. Knowing him, he’ll give me permission to hand out that kind of information for a situation like this.”

“You would?” Valjean asks, something kind of like hope in his eyes.

Javert looks away, very uncomfortable but not knowing what else to do about it. “Yeah. I mean, why not? Consider it a proper apology for me being a dick at the café.”

“I deserved that,” Valjean says. “I should have said something before then, the moment I knew for sure. I almost did, but I... I’m a coward. I wasn’t ready for you to leave. And then we had a nice conversation and I couldn’t make myself do it. I didn’t know for sure that you really had no idea who I was until didn’t recognize me in the café.”

“Maybe you did deserve some of it,” Javert agrees, “but not like that. That’s what I’m like sometimes, which is exactly why I thought that becoming friends was a terrible idea. So, I was right.”

“But you came to apologize and explain,” Valjean says, “even if it took you a while. So I forgive you.”

Javert looks at him and wonders how the hell he can be so nice.

“I still hurt you,” Javert says. “I even meant it. It was intentional.”

Valjean looks down at his hands. “Maybe, but you came back, so I don’t mind. I don’t know what it is about you, but I can’t seem to get you out of my head. I spent a long time hating you, but you’re nothing like I thought you would be.” His mouth curls up into a tiny perfect smile. “You’re complex and driven and maybe you don’t care about a lot of things, but you spend a lot of energy on the few things you do care about. You know yourself and always carry yourself with confidence, the likes of which I can only aspire to have. You’re prideful and intelligent and confident, but not arrogant in the least. You’re stubborn, but you don’t let anyone or anything influence you if you don’t want them to. You—“

Javert kisses him. Valjean’s lips are warm and perfect, his hair soft under his hands, and shit, it really shouldn’t be possible for one person to be so damn perfect. Then Valjean makes a startled sound and Javert realizes what the fuck he’s doing and practically leaps backwards.

“Fuck,” he swears, covering his face with a hand and spending his anxious energy by pacing in the tiny space he’s allowed. “I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have done that. Shit. You just, uh, fuck, I’m fucking this up, _shit_!”

Valjean just stares at him, face flushed a mortified red. Javert can feel his own face heating up too, which is horrifying.

“Won’t happen again,” Javert says. “Just... forget I ever did that. I’ll leave now, if it helps—“

Valjean grabs hold of his hand. His palms are calloused. Javert wonders if they’re from the weights or from something else. He wants to know what else Valjean does in his spare time besides lift weights and run a gym. He wants to know everything about him.

“No, please stay,” Valjean says, somehow flushing brighter. “I, ah, I don’t mind.”

Javert blinks uselessly at Valjean’s hand in his. “What?”

“I mean, well,” Valjean looks up at the ceiling of his tiny office. The light from his ugly lamp makes his face hard to read. “I… ah... liked it. I wouldn’t mind if you, ah, wanted to do it again.”

Javert stares at him. He’s almost sure he’s dreaming this entire day, from Chabouillet wanting him to be prefect to Valjean saying that he liked it when Javert kissed him.

“O-only if you wanted,” Valjean adds quickly. “I, ah, wouldn’t be... upset if you didn’t.”

Which sounds very much like he’s lying and would be quite upset if Javert never kisses him again. Javert can’t have that, obviously. He doesn’t want Valjean to be upset.

The second time he kisses Valjean it’s very intentional, and this time Valjean makes a little whimper that nearly sounds something like relief. Shit, that’s hot. He hasn’t even done anything yet.

“Fuck,” he breathes against Valjean’s lips. “Can I— again?”

“Please,” Valjean answers in a whisper.

It’s been a long time since Javert’s kissed anyone, but he thinks that he’s doing pretty good if Valjean’s quiet sounds are anything to go by. His hair is so soft, his hands so strong but so careful, and Javert doesn’t know why he ever wanted to hate Valjean when he could have this. He licks at Valjean’s tongue, pushing his way into his mouth to taste him better and Valjean does not disappoint. His hands find Valjean’s pecs, perfect as he always thought them to be even over his hoodie.

“Take this ugly thing off,” Javert mutters, refusing to part from Valjean’s mouth for longer than he has to.

It’s kind of thrilling that Valjean starts to unzip his hoodie immediately, without question. Like he’s just as eager for Javert’s hands to explore him. Like he’ll do anything Javert wants.

The hoodie comes off, dropping to the floor.

“Kiss me against the wall,” Javert asks next, mostly to test if he’s right or not. “Door. Whatever.”

Valjean pauses, blinking several times as if to make sure he heard him right. Javert raises an eyebrow expectantly.

“Okay,” Valjean says, sounding dazed and adrift but very happy about it.

Then he’s being backed up a few steps and Valjean is chest to chest with him, a wall against his back, and Javert groans.

“Fuck,” he swears. “Yes, good, perfect—“

“Can you say my name?” Valjean asks.

“Which one do you want?” Javert answers, very content to do whatever Valjean wants too.

“Jean,” he says. “Call me Jean, please.”

“Kiss me again, Jean.”

Valjean does, with a soft sound of want that goes directly to Javert’s groin. Shit, he wants Valjean to fuck him. Right here in his tiny fucking office against the wall. It would be so good. He runs his hands down Valjean’s back until he’s finally, _finally_ , squeezing that perfect fucking ass that’s been distracting him for months. It is, of course, muscular and wonderfully squeezable and dear God the things Javert wants to do to this man’s ass.

“ _Oh_ , Javert,” Valjean moans, head dropping to Javert’s shoulder the first time he gives a good squeeze. “ _Javert_ —“

“Good?” Javert asks. “Like that, Jean?”

Valjean nods against his neck, groaning a second time when Javert does it again.

“Shit, you feel so fucking good,” Javert mutters.

“It’s— _ah!_ — been a while,” Valjean replies into his neck.

“Me too,” Javert answers. “Want you to fuck me— Wait, ah, shit. God damnit.”

“Hm?”

“Really enjoying this,” Javert says, sadly removing his hands from Valjean’s perfect ass, “but I need to ask you to step back for a second so I can tell you something.”

Valjean does as asked, frowning with concern. “What is it?”

“I’m, uh...” Fuck, he’s always so bad at this.

Valjean only frowns more. “Is this too fast? Am I too much?”

“What? No, you’re fine. I like fast,” Javert answers. “I just, uh, don’t have a dick.”

Valjean now looks mildly alarmed.

“Wait, fuck—“ He covers his eyes with his hand. “It’s fine, kind of, stop looking like that.” He takes a breath. “I don’t have a dick because I’m transgender.”

Valjean is silent and Javert is too much of a coward to look.

“Should I leave now?” Javert asks eventually, dry and bitter. “Wouldn’t be the first time it was too weird to fuck a guy with a vagina. I would offer to fuck you instead, but I don’t exactly keep a strap-on in my fucking pocket.”

“Oh no, please don’t leave, Javert,” Valjean says, his kind fingers gently pushing Javert’s hand away from his eyes. “I’m just surprised, that’s all. Unexpected, yes, but perfectly fine. I, ah...” He looks away. “I was really expecting you to say that you changed your mind about me, honestly. About... this. I think that surprised me more.”

“Oh,” Javert says uselessly. “Uh, no, probably not going to change my mind about you tonight? Not that interested in talking about it right now when you could be fucking me against the wall instead.”

Valjean flushes a brilliant shade of red. “We could, ah, go back to my place instead, if you want? I don’t live terribly far—“

“I want it here,” Javert says. “With you. Preferably in me, if you have condoms laying around here for some reason.”

Valjean’s flush deepens.

“Oh my god, you _do_ ,” Javert says with no small amount of disbelief. “Why the _fuck_ — never mind, I don’t actually care right now. I don’t want to know.”

“I really think that it’s better to have condoms freely available than—“

“ _Valjean_ ,” Javert interrupts. “I said I don’t want to know! I fucking go to this damn gym and I don’t want to know what the hell goes on in those showers of yours.”

“I didn’t say it was me!” Valjean objects.

“I’m not saying it’s you,” Javert says. “Still don’t want to know. Look, are you going to fuck me right now or not?”

“I have a perfectly serviceable bed,” Valjean says, pulling open one of his desk drawers anyway and rooting around it, presumably looking for a serviceable condom. “We’re not teenagers.”

“I’m perfectly aware of that,” Javert growls. “I realized I’m getting old earlier today, don’t make me think about it more than I have to.”

Valjean looks up to smile at him, something knowing and mischievous in it. It does things to him. “So you want something spontaneous?”

“Something like that,” Javert mutters, looking away. He likes it when Valjean smiles at him, he’s learning, but it doesn’t mean he’s comfortable with just how _much_ it makes him feel.

“I can do that.” He returns to Javert with a plain foil packet in hand. “May I kiss you again?”

Javert takes him by the shirt and pulls him close as his answer. He could get used to kissing Valjean. It’s very nice, after all, and Valjean’s rusty technique is quickly improving. Valjean even finally gets the hint, after much tugging on his clothes, to really press him into the wall again. Javert groans and he can feel Valjean smile against his lips.

“Can we get to the part where you fuck me, now?” Javert asks, voice rough and breathy.

Valjean’s lips start down his jaw, his smile only growing wider. “I underestimated how demanding you would be.”

“If I had a dick, I’d be taking you over your desk right now instead of talking,” Javert growls, trying very hard not to moan when Valjean’s teeth graze his skin.

Valjean makes a very quiet, very stifled moan of desire.

Javert blinks. “You would like that. Do you not like topping?”

“I like both,” Valjean says in an embarrassed voice, talking into Javert’s neck. “I know I don’t look it—“

“I also like both,” Javert says, cutting him off before he can say something ridiculous. “Only have the one option right now though, so can we get on with it already?”

Valjean gives a short laugh, something relieved about it, before raising his head to look at Javert. “Maybe if you ask nicely.” But he’s already got his hands on Javert’s belt, unfastening it and then unzipping his trousers without another hesitation.

“I’m not nice, Jean,” Javert says anyway. “We went over this.”

Valjean smiles at him, then follows Javert’s trousers to the floor. His hands trail down Javert’s legs with a kind of reverence that Javert wants to give Valjean’s whole fucking body. “I think you’re... very nice.”

Javert doesn’t know what to do with that comment and elects to ignore it for the moment. “Shoes too,” he says instead. “Just get everything off.”

Like before, Valjean obeys. His eyes keep straying to Javert’s calves. Javert remembers that Madeleine- Valjean complimented his calves that time when Javert broke his nose on the treadmill.

He helps Javert out of his shoes with a minimal amount of swearing, trousers coming off next. Javert shoves his underwear down before he can overthink it or have to explain his packer and steps out of those too. Valjean’s eyes suddenly start avoiding him and Javert is terrified that Valjean’s going to leave him like this.

“What?” Javert snaps, quickly resorting to anger as always. “You can look at me, you know, if you can stand it.”

Valjean looks up at his face with a frown. “If I can—?” He rises, quickly reaching out for Javert’s hand. Javert remains unmoving and unresponsive, but that doesn’t stop Valjean from touching him anyway. “No, Javert, please don’t get the wrong idea. I haven’t changed my mind, I just... don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

Javert stares at him for a long moment, long enough that Valjean starts looking at Javert’s shoulder instead.

“I’ve been, ah, intimate with cis men and cis women before,” Valjean says nervously, “but I’ve never had a trans partner, and I really don’t want to upset you or make you uncomfortable or— Oh, Javert, I just don’t want you angry with me.”

Javert blinks. Oh. Valjean’s just being too nice again and Javert is unintentionally hurting him. He takes a breath to calm himself down from the near-rage he was building himself into.

“You can look at me,” Javert tells him. “You can touch me, actually it’s a damn requirement that you touch me, wherever you want. If I don’t like something, I’ll tell you. I’m fairly straightforward, Valjean.”

“Oh, yes,” Valjean says, too quickly. “Of course. I- I should have remembered.”

“Why are you anxious?” Javert asks.

Valjean is quiet for a moment, his hand over Javert’s falls away. Javert catches it before he knows what he’s doing, but doesn’t let go.

“I don’t want you upset with me,” Valjean says softly.

“I’m not upset,” Javert tells him. “You had me there for a moment, when I thought you changed your mind, but it’s fine. You would know if I was angry, V- Jean.”

Valjean takes a breath and squeezes Javert’s hand. “Thank you,” he says. “I’m a little nervous?”

“Then stop talking,” Javert tells him, then drags him into another kiss that Valjean quickly returns. Really, Javert could kiss Valjean for a very long time and not get tired of it.

“Fingers,” Javert mutters against his lips. “Get your fingers in me, Jean.”

Valjean’s wets his fingers in his mouth and they hesitantly make their way between Javert’s legs, his thick fingers brushing Javert’s inner thigh unbearably erotic.

“Damnit, Jean,” Javert growls. He reaches down and grabs Valjean’s wrist, forcing those fingers where he wants them. If you want something done right and all, and this is very right. Shit, it’s been a while since he’s had someone else’s hand down there.

“Oh,” Valjean breathes against his lips. “You’re wet.”

“Yeah, I do that,” Javert mutters. “Why the fuck do you think I’ve been asking you get on with it, already?”

Valjean takes the hint and doesn’t fuck around with foreplay when Javert is already pretty aroused, sliding his finger up and in and adding a second a moment later. Javert swears, the back of his head hitting the wall and fists in Valjean’s shirt.

“Okay?” Valjean asks.

“ _Okay?_ ” Javert parrots. “Does it fucking look like I’m just _okay?_ ”

Valjean hesitates.

“It’s fucking good,” Javert assures him quickly, because Valjean’s fingers in him is very good but Valjean’s fingers in him but _not moving at al_ l would be worse than hell. “Fuck, keep going, Jean. Are you hard? Can I touch you?”

“Yeah, I- I’m— Please, Javert,” Valjean says, watching Javert’s face with rapt attention. “Whatever you’d like, I want it.”

Permission granted, Javert wastes absolutely no time in feeling up Valjean’s crotch. He _is_ hard, or at least getting there, and Javert had hardly done anything besides kiss him. He’s also rather well hung, which Javert knew because those fucking orange booty shorts hid very, very little, but to feel it hard and heavy in his hand is a whole other thing. Valjean’s hips jerk forward at the touch, his breath catching and leaving him as a soft groan, his free hand on Javert’s hip turning crushing for a brief moment and reminding Javert how fucking strong he is. It’s hotter than it has any right to be. It gives him an idea.

“Hey, Jean,” Javert says. “Think you could lift me?”

Valjean blinks some of the lust from his eyes. “What? Ah, I suppose so?”

“Think you could hold my weight while you fuck me against the wall?” Javert asks.

Valjean makes a wonderful sound that’s absolute gibberish, burying his face into Javert’s neck. His fingers slide right out of him to instead cling to Javert’s shirt and Javert doesn’t even care.

“Well?” Javert prods, although he’s pretty sure the answer is yes and Valjean would like that very much. “Can you do it?”

It takes several tries for Valjean to make a noise that even remotely sounds like a yes. Javert is very, very pleased with himself.

“Can I get your cock out?” Javert asks. “May I touch you?”

“Yes,” Valjean answers in a wrecked voice. “Yes, please.”

He pushes Valjean away just enough to undo his trousers and push them down around his thighs and get a look at him. Valjean’s cock is beautiful and thick and cut, his pubic hair just as white as the hair on his head which is just frankly absurd but whatever. The head of his cock is already shiny with precome and Javert is kind of upset that literally every part of Valjean is fucking perfect. It’s just not fair.

“Even your cock is beautiful,” Javert mutters. “What the fuck.”

“I’m—“ Javert closes a fist around his cock and Valjean gasps, “I’m sorry?”

“Don’t you dare apologize for this, Jean,” Javert tells him. “You’re just too fucking perfect and I’m mad about it.”

Another stroke and Valjean groans. “Ah, w-what?”

Javert snorts. “Never mind. Now, I want this in me by fucking yesterday. Condom?”

“Back pocket, I th— _oh God!”_

Javert had firmly grabbed Valjean’s ass again, since he was reaching back there anyway, before he has to let go again and reach for the trousers around Jean’s thighs.

“Keep doing that and I might not last,” Valjean mutters.

Interesting. Javert files that in the back of his mind for later.

“Good, since I like your ass,” he replies.

Valjean hums, clearly pleased. Javert finds the condom, to which Valjean does not help at all because he’s busy trying to finger Javert again which is very distracting. Once found, he opens the foil and rolls the condom onto Valjean’s cock as quick as he can. He is not smooth, swearing when the empty foil wrapper bits insist on sticking to his hands with lube and accidentally squeezing Valjean’s cock tight enough to make him hiss.

“Shit,” Javert says, as much of a swear as it is an apology. “Usually not so terrible at this.”

“I don’t care,” Valjean says, smiling at him in a way that’s bordering on adoration.

“You’re a fucking sap, did you know that?” Javert growls.

Valjean kisses him, probably to be an asshole, but it doesn’t really work out that way when Javert likes kissing him so much. Valjean steps forward enough that his cock bumps against Javert’s hip, and Javert just can’t not have that thick cock in him right now. He uses his hand to put it between his thighs so maybe Valjean will get on with it already, and, when that doesn’t work immediately, grinds his hips impatiently to get fucking _something_ against his cunt.

“Fuck,” Valjean swears. Javert didn’t know he did that. He would like to hear Valjean swear again.

“Pick me up and fuck me, Jean,” Javert says.

“Okay,” Valjean replies. “Yes, okay.”

Valjean’s calloused hands slide under Javert’s thighs and suddenly his back is hard against the wall and his feet are no longer on the ground.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Javert swears breathlessly. “Fuck. Shit, Jean—“

“Like this?” he asks. Not even a little bit winded, that bastard.

“Fucking exactly like this,” Javert agrees, squeezing his thighs around Valjean’s hips and fumbling to line Valjean’s cock up with his cunt since his hands are obviously occupied right now. “Yeah, think that’s—“

He sinks down on Valjean’s cock at the same time Valjean’s hips rock into him, pressing him against the wall, and Javert is so turned on he can hardly think. He aches with the stretch of it, of going a little too fast with probably not enough lube, but it’s so fucking good he doesn’t regret a thing.

“Okay?” Valjean asks.

It actually takes a moment for Javert to think of the words he should say.

“Yeah,” he answers eventually, voice rough and dazed. “More than. Christ, Jean. Stay here just a second.”

So of course Valjean kisses him, because he can, and Javert’s technique is horrible because all he can think of is Valjean’s thick cock buried in him to the hilt. He adjusts his grip on Javert’s thighs and Javert moans helplessly at such a casual show of strength.

“Are you sure you’re okay, Javert?” Valjean asks, a note of teasing humor in his voice.

“Fuck off,” Javert tells him with a very poor attempt at a scowl. “Just been a long time and you’re so fucking strong and so damn perfect I kind of hate it a little.” He takes a breath. The ache has lessened now. “Now move, Jean. I can take it.”

Valjean gives a slow, shallow thrust of his hips.

Javert growls. “More than that!”

Valjean holds his eyes. He’s beautiful, even in the shitty light of Valjean’s terrible lamp. Hazel eyes, leaning green. Then Valjean picks up the pace and Javert doesn’t have the brainpower to think anymore. Javert swears and Valjean chuckles, and Javert swears at him for that too. His feet are off the ground and ankles crossed behind Valjean’s back, Valjean’s powerful hands holding him up entirely, his shoulders aching with how hard Valjean has him against the wall, and it’s absolutely perfect. Valjean’s breaths turn rough to match Javert’s, his palms hot as a brand on Javert’s skin.

Honestly, Javert hadn’t let himself imagine Madeleine fucking him. He’s not an optimist. Fantasizing about shit that wasn’t going to happen got him nowhere except more frustrated than he was to begin with. But it is happening, and Javert thinks that if he had imagined this, the fantasy still wouldn’t hold a candle to how this feels. Valjean watches him when he isn’t kissing him, his eyes open and full of desire and an odd sort of affection that makes Javert feel things. He doesn’t think anyone has ever looked at him like that before.

“If you come before I do,” Javert manages to say, “I’ll fucking kill you.”

Valjean’s lips twist into a smile. “Can’t- _ah!_ \- can’t have that.”

Valjean adjusts his hold on him and his next thrust has Javert seeing stars.

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” he groans. “Fuck, Jean, again, right there—“

“Okay?” Valjean asks with a little smile, that asshole. He cants his hips and Javert can hardly breath for how good it feels.

“Fucking fantastic,” Javert somehow manages to say. It’s a good thing that Valjean is holding him right now because Javert is absolutely sure his legs wouldn’t. “Harder, come on!”

Valjean obeys and Javert’s nails claw at the back of Valjean’s neck and across his shoulders at how perfect it all is. It’s actually an effort to reach down to rub his clit, but he’s so fucking close and he’s pretty sure Valjean’s taking his words seriously about not coming before Javert. He’s breathing hard, after all, and his white hair is sticking to his forehead with sweat like it does when he’s finishing up his reps with the weights. It’s hot is what it is.

Then Valjean looks at him with those damnably kind hazel eyes, thrusts deep, and Javert comes with a garbled swear. Valjean fucks him through it, leaving Javert a shaking mess of pleasure, before slamming into him one last time and falls still as he finishes with a groan against Javert’s neck.

Javert leans his head against the wall, trying to catch his breath. “Shit,” he says. “That was... really good.”

“Yeah?” Valjean asks.

“Absolutely,” Javert answers. “You can, uh... put me down now. If you need to.”

“Oh,” Valjean says. “Right. Yes.”

Valjean’s cock slips out of him, and Javert kind of wishes it didn’t and that they could do that again immediately because it was maybe the best sex Javert has ever had, and sets him back on the ground with care. Javert’s legs are like fucking jelly under him and he ends up clinging to Valjean’s shoulders when they refuse to hold him.

“Goddamnit,” Javert mutters into Valjean’s really excellent chest.

Valjean chuckles. Javert can feel it through his face.

“This is all your fault, Valjean” Javert says, letting his eyes close as to maximize his focus on touching Valjean’s chest. “Made me come so hard I can’t fucking walk.”

“I plead guilty,” Valjean replies. His hands linger on Javert’s skin, caressing his hips and wandering under his shirt. It’s very nice. “Hey, ah, Javert?”

“Hmm?”

“Can I... maybe take you to dinner sometime?”

Javert blinks. He didn’t expect Valjean to ask something like that. Well, he did, but not while Javert's still stupid from sex. “Oh. Uh...”

Valjean’s hands still. “If you don’t want to, that’s fine too. I mean—“

“Yes.”

“—we barely know each other. We’ve had like three civil conversations and this—“

“Valjean.”

“—and that’s not really enough time to get to know someone—“

“Jean.”

Valjean stops talking.

“I said yes,” Javert repeats. His legs can hold him now, but that doesn’t mean he wants to stop pressing his face into Valjean’s collarbones.

“... _oh_.”

“Not really a dinner kind of guy, though,” Javert adds. “I like coffee. We could do coffee tomorrow.”

“Oh,” Valjean says again. “Yes, I, ah, I would like that. Very much.”

Javert pulls himself away with reluctance. “Tell me you have a towel in here.”

“What?” Valjean says, blinking. “Well, yes. Maybe not here in my office, but yes.”

“I’m not walking out there without pants,” Javert tells him with a scowl. “You have those big fucking windows out front.”

“I’ll get one from the showers,” Valjean says. “I’m more dressed than you.”

Kind of. Closer to being dressed than Javert is at least. Valjean is clothed again in a few seconds, condom tossed in the trash, and leaves the office with a quick smile. Javert doesn’t know what to do with himself now that he’s left alone, thighs unfortunately and uncomfortably sticky, so he checks out the pictures on Valjean’s desk. Most of them are of girls with honey-colored hair and bright blue eyes. It’s likely that they’re all the same person, but it’s rather difficult for Javert to tell thanks to his goddamn prosopagnosia. There’s only one picture with Valjean in it, playing proud parent to a college graduate version of the girl in the other pictures.

“Here.”

Javert looks up to see that Valjean has returned, cheap white towel in hand.

“Who’s the girl?” Javert asks, walking back around the desk to take the offered towel.

“My daughter, Cosette,” Valjean answers.

Javert frowns. “Daughter?”

“Adopted,” Valjean says quickly. “Her mother wrote me as her next of kin in her will shortly before the cancer took her. She had nothing else and wanted nothing else. I was paying for her treatments, her parents had disowned her when she got pregnant with Cosette, she had sold what little she had, and Cosette’s father was long gone. I don’t regret a thing.”

“Too nice,” Javert mutters.

Valjean ducks his head, smiling. “Cosette has been the light of my life. She’s been badgering me about talking to you for a long while, now.”

“Why?” Javert asks, stepping back into his boxers.

“Because I liked to watch you, but I was too afraid to do anything about it,” Valjean answers. “She was very pleased with me the day you broke your nose and has been asking after you ever since.”

“Wouldn’t have broken my nose if you didn’t have such a perfect ass,” Javert mutters, reaching for his trousers next.

Valjean blinks at him. “What?”

“Your ass, Valjean,” Javert says with a scowl. “I was watching you demonstrating squats with the weight bar thing in those fucking booty shorts of yours and I tripped and broke my nose.”

Valjean laughs, quickly putting a hand over his mouth to stifle it. Javert’s scowl only turns more fierce.

“Four weeks of desk duty and it’s all your damn fault,” Javert says.

“I’m sorry?” Valjean says, making it a question. He’s still smiling. “I apologize that you were so involved in checking me out that you forgot how to run.”

“Oh, fuck you,” Javert mutters.

“Maybe another time?” Valjean asks. “You did say...”

Javert rolls his eyes. “Obviously, Valjean. I can’t wait to fuck that perfect ass of yours. Don’t know where the fuck I put my strap-on, but should be somewhere.”

Valjean makes a high, embarrassed sound.

“I’ve got like, three or four different dildos to pair with it, too,” Javert adds. “You can pick whichever you want. Or buy a new one. Whatever.”

“ _Javert_ ,” Valjean says, breathless and nearly begging. His face is red, his eyes bright. “Please, stop talking.”

Javert raises an eyebrow, grinning his feral grin. “Too much for you?”

“Ah, a little, yes.” Valjean looks away. “It’s been... a very long time. Can we maybe go a little slower? I don’t usually, ah, jump straight into things like this.”

“Okay,” Javert says. “Although the next time we have sex, I want to top.”

“Oh, I won’t argue with that,” Valjean says with a shy smile. “Looking forward to it. Coffee tomorrow, then? When and where?”

“Shit, I did say tomorrow, didn’t I?” Javert says. “I don’t actually know what’s happening tomorrow. I’m being promoted.”

“Congratulations?” Valjean hesitantly says. “I thought you said you didn’t want it.”

“I don’t,” Javert says, scowling. “But Chabouillet has it in his head that I’m going to be prefect when he retires. I owe him too much to turn it down when he actually explained himself. And there’s no one else I’d trust with the position. I’m going to hate it.”

“I think you’ll do very well,” Valjean says.

Javert grunts, unconvinced. “Whatever. Point is, I don’t know if I’m free tomorrow for coffee.”

“That’s okay,” Valjean says. “Maybe you can call me? Let me know?”

Javert never thought he would be asking for the number of a former arrest, but then again, he never thought he would have sex with one either. He finds his phone and scowls at Valjean’s outdated clamshell, but numbers are exchanged.

“Do you... have a first name?” Valjean asks.

“Legally, yes,” Javert answers in a mutter. “I never liked my birth name because of the trans thing, so I’ve always gone by Javert. Changed it so it wouldn’t be weird, but I still prefer Javert.”

“Okay,” Valjean says.

“It’s, uh, Leo,” Javert says awkwardly. “If you wanted to know.”

“Like the—?”

“Zodiac, yes, shut up.”

Valjean chuckles, but it’s not accusatory at all. “I think it suits you.”

“Chabouillet suggested it and I didn’t have any other ideas,” Javert mutters. “Didn’t give me any heads up about legally changing my name, the bastard.”

Valjean smiles. “You hadn’t transitioned yet when you arrested me, did you?”

Javert immediately pulls back. “No,” he says with a scowl, “and I’m not going to talk about it.”

“I wasn’t going to ask,” Valjean says softly. “I was only going to say that I’m glad you arrested me. I was on a terrible path and while prison was... not pleasant, it got me out. And, through the attention my arrest got you, you met Chabouillet. He sounds very important to you from what you’ve told me, so I’m glad that it was you. And now I get to meet you like this so many years later. I’m going to go get coffee with a lovely man who may not be nice but is loyal and admirable and steadfast, and it wouldn’t be happening now if you hadn’t arrested me back then.”

Javert can only stare at him.

Valjean ducks his head, cheeks pink. “I’m sorry. Was that too weird? Too much?”

“Uh, no,” Javert says stupidly. “I just... never would have thought of it that way. Should I be thanking you for breaking the law? Because that feels very wrong.”

Valjean laughs. “No, please don’t.”

“Then it’s fine.”

Quiet falls between them, somehow both awkward yet peaceful. Even in the light of the ugly lamp, Valjean is handsome. It’s very unfair of him.

“I should, uh, go home. It’s kind of late,” Javert says eventually. He holds up his phone. “But I’ll let you know if I’m free tomorrow.”

“Okay,” Valjean replies, smiling in that way that does things to Javert. “Can you kiss me before you leave?”

Javert doesn’t waste time talking, simply walking right up to him and kissing him again. Valjean keeps it quite chaste and Javert doesn’t think he’s been kissed so sweetly in his life. It’s something he wants to happen again.

“How do you keep doing that?” Javert mutters.

“Do what?”

“Making me feel things.”

Valjean smiles, pressing his lips to Javert’s for a long, lingering moment. “You make me feel things too, Javert.”

Javert doesn’t know what to do with that. Are they feeling the same things or different things? What does it all mean? He wants to know, but curious and stubborn enough to want to figure it out himself.

Valjean steps away, shy smile still on his lips. “I’ll see you for coffee?”

“Yeah, whenever that’ll be,” Javert replies.

Valjean walks him to the door, unlocking it with a flick of his hand. “Goodnight, Javert.”

“Goodnight,” Javert replies. He turns to leave.

“Oh!”

Javert turns back around. “What?”

“When we get coffee, what should I wear?” Valjean asks. “So you recognize me quickly, unlike last time.”

Javert is, again, taken aback by his kindness. Even Chabouillet forgets his prosopagnosia sometimes. “Uh, I don’t know,” he answers. “Something that’ll stand out. Not black, everyone wears black.”

“I’ll see what’s in my closet,” Valjean says. “Goodnight.”

Javert nods, then turns to head home.

—

Javert checks his phone again. Valjean is late. It took four days for their schedules to line up, but he’s here at the agreed upon café. He’s already ordered coffee since he got here early, unexpectedly anxious that Valjean might change his mind. Wouldn’t be the first time he’s been stood up, but this is different. He wants to know where this could go, what those feelings are that Valjean’s looks sometimes give him. He wants to rub it in Chabouillet’s face that not only can he make friends if he wanted to, but he can find and keep a romantic partner who isn’t an asshole. Mostly because Chabouillet’s been insufferable since Javert told him about Valjean.

Which only makes him more anxious about Valjean being late, because then Chabouillet would have a point and would be even more insufferable.

Then, finally, Javert spots a white-haired man who can only be Valjean heading towards him.

“Hey,” Valjean says with a shy smile.

“What is it with you and _"hey"_?” Javert asks. “I hate your coat.”

Valjean’s smile widens. “You said not black.”

“That doesn’t mean it should be fucking _yellow,_ Valjean. It’s hideous.”

“I think the correct word is _ochre_ , but okay. I’ll wear something different next time if you hate it so much.”

“Don’t you dare,” Javert says with a scowl. “That damned thing is burned into my memory. Won’t recognize you without it now.”

“Whatever you say,” Valjean says, still smiling. Somehow, it’s not irritating. “Are you buying?”

“This time,” Javert says with narrowed eyes, “and only because you’re late. Next time, you’re buying.”

Valjean’s smile turns brilliant at the implication that there will be a next time, and it definitely makes Javert feel things. He wants to see him smile like that more often.

“I’m only late because your treadmills finally came in.”

“Oh, so now they’re _my_ treadmills?”

“Well, yes,” Valjean says. “You use them the most and how am I supposed to watch those lovely legs of yours if you don’t come in to run?”

Javert chokes on his coffee and Valjean laughs, his hand warm between Javert’s shoulder blades as Javert coughs.

He could get used to this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, uh... I really wanna write Javert fucking Valjean with a strap-on, and also Valjean meeting Chabouillet, and Javert interacting with Cosette, and Valjean and Javert being gay, so uh.... that might happen. Eventually. Considering the speed at which I write, the start vs finish dates at least, don't count on that any time soon lmao
> 
> FUN FACTS that Javert didn't get around to thinking about explicitly: 
> 
> -Valjean Adores Javert's long hair and absolutely braids it when Javert lets him.
> 
> -Chabouillet totally paid for Javert's top surgery like not even a year into their acquaintanceship/mentorship/friendship/Chab kind of adopting Javert as his weird cop kid-ship. I didn't research what top surgery was like in like, the 80s or 90s, but I'm just assuming it was a Thing even if it was significantly harder to convince doctors to do. Javert was more of a bastard than usual when he was on desk duty for however long it takes that shit to heal which is many months lmao
> 
> -The fact that Chabouillet had a name all picked out when he pitched the idea of legally changing Javert's name means a whole fucking lot and even if Javert DID have something prepared, he would have pitched it at once. Even if he still don't use his first name.
> 
> -Chabouillet has been priming the department for literal decades to get Javert to replace him eventually. It's going to happen or Chab will bring hell. It's honestly a mystery to him that Javert hasn't noticed, but Javert pointedly ignores department politics because he hates nearly everyone he works with.
> 
> -I can finally spell Chabouillet without looking it up first, holy shit
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
